


DJ's Horrible, No-Good, Very Bad Day (Is Much Worse for Everyone Else)

by scifigrl47



Series: Tales of the Bots [13]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Family Issues, Fluff, Gen, Hurt child, M/M, hurt comfort, parenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-13
Updated: 2016-09-24
Packaged: 2018-05-20 06:34:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 28,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5995099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scifigrl47/pseuds/scifigrl47
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>DJ Stark has a bad day.  Everyone else suffers far more than he does.  They prefer it that way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Started this on my Tumblr quite some time ago and then forgot about it. Since it's almost done, figured it was time to put it up here.
> 
> Warnings for slight childhood injury and trauma via accident.

“Hey, you crazy kids. What's the good word?” Clint said, ambling through the door to the playroom. “Cap, we've-”

He stopped, because DJ came scrambling across the floor, an unearthly shriek echoing in his wake. Steve, a step behind him, snagged him by the back of the shirt, dragging him to a stop. DJ twisted in his grip, leaning his body against the fabric of his shirt, howling like a banshee.

“The good word,” Steve said, his voice tired, “appears to be 'loud.'”

Clint's eyebrows arched. “Yeah, I got that. Everything okay, Cap?”

“He's in a mood today,” Steve said, and there was the thinnest note of strain to his voice, of frustration and anger. He looked tired when he looked at Clint, but he scooped DJ off of his feet. DJ kicked at him, a fresh howl working its way to a feverish pitch. Steve's eyes squeezed shut. “Deej-”

DJ swung a hand at him, and Steve set him back on his feet, crouching down. “Don't hit,” he said. “You know better than that. We don't hurt people, even if we're feeling bad. Right?”

DJ's lower lip wobbled, but he nodded. 

“Good boy.” Steve kissed his forehead and let him go. DJ plodded across the room, flopping into the pile of pillows that formed his reading corner. He picked up a big picture book, seemingly at random, and hunched over it. 

“Not a good day, huh?” Clint asked.

Steve scraped a hand over his face. “It hasn't been his best,” he admitted. “Or mine.” There was exhaustion in his face, in his eyes. More than that, there was that unique frustration that haunted Steve's expression when he couldn't figure out the right thing to do. 

Clint nodded. “Uh-huh. Want me to distract him for a few, Cap?”

“I'm fine,” Steve said immediately.

“Cap.” Clint gave him a look. “Go get a cup of coffee and an aspirin or something, do us all a favor. Including him. I mean, kid's gotta know when he's getting on your nerves, too.”

“Probably,” Steve admitted.

“He's sick of you, that's all there is to it.” Clint crouched down. “Hey there, little menace. Wanna go throw paint on the wall?” He rubbed a hand on the back of his neck. “Or we can build a new tent, or invent some sort of highly dangerous game where we cover our eyes and throw balls around until someone ends up crying. Probably me.”

“He's been bouncing off the walls,” Steve said, and there was affection under the exhaustion that colored his voice. “I think he needs a nap. He's been refusing to do anything. Eat. Sleep. Anything.”

DJ ignored them both, huddled down with his book. He turned the page, his face set in a miserable pout, and Clint's eyes narrowed. “We'll have a quiet little reading session, I guess, I'll pull up Sports Illustrated on a tablet or something.” He plopped himself into the pillow pile where DJ was sitting. DJ shied to the side, pulling away from him, putting distance between them.

Clint kept his face blank. “Go get a sandwich or something, Steve, I got this.”

Steve paused, his hands braced on his hips. “You sure?” he asked, but the fact that he was even considering it said a lot about how stressed he was.

“Yeah. Sure.” Clint rearranged himself on the pillows, grabbing a tablet. He deliberately left his left side open, waiting for DJ to curl up there. But the boy didn't move, he just turned the page of his book. Clint swallowed a very bad feeling.

“Okay,” Steve said. “I'll be back in thirty minutes, DJ. Clint, see if you can get him to drink something, or lie down for a bit.”

Clint didn't even look in his direction. “Go away, Steve.”

Laughing, Steve went away, and Clint waited for the door to close behind him before he set the tablet down. “Hey, so, usually when you're in a bad mood, I have to pry you off of me with a crowbar,” he said, with a smile. “What's up, Astroboy?”

DJ didn't say anything, didn't even look in Clint's direction. He just scrubbed at his nose with the back of his hand. His left hand. And went back to idly turning pages in his book. With his left hand.

Clint reached into his pocket. “Hey,” he said, his voice coaxing. “Want a piece of chocolate, Deej?” DJ's head came up, and his eyes and nose were red and his mouth was turned down in a miserable scowl. But he looked interested as Clint pulled a fun sized Milky Way bar out of his vest pocket and held it out. DJ twisted around, reaching awkwardly around with his left hand to take it. Then he gripped the wrapper with one hand and ripped it open with his teeth.

Clint watched, his stomach sinking, as DJ ate the chocolate, chewing slowly. “Want another?” Clint asked, and that won him a nod.

He fished another chocolate from his pocket and held it out. DJ reached for it, and Clint pulled it back. “With your right hand, okay?”

DJ blinked at him, his lower lip coming out in a sad pout. He reached with his left again, and Clint shook his head. “How about a high five, then?” he asked, holding his hand up, right in front of DJ. And watched DJ's face crumble in pain and confusion. “Okay.” He opened the chocolate and handed it over. “Jarvis, did DJ fall today?”

There was a beat of silence. “Yes,” Jarvis said at last. “He was running earlier, and tried to jump over his toy box. He didn't quite make it. But he got up quickly. He didn't even cry.”

But DJ was quiet and pale now, his eyes bright with tears and his body tucked around his right arm. The arm that he refused to move. Clint took a deep breath. “Can you call Bruce for me?”

“Of course.”

Clint wiped at DJ's cheek with careful fingers. “It's okay, bot buddy, it's okay.”

“Clint?” Bruce's voice came over the speakers. “What's-”

“I think DJ has a broken collarbone,” Clint said.

There was a moment of silence. “I'm on my way down.”

“Yeah, I'd appreciate that.” Clint stroked DJ's hair, his hand careful. “It's okay. It's okay.” He huffed out a breath. “It's gonna be fine. Trust me. If I'm right, this is going to hurt us more than it's gonna hurt you.”

*

Clint sat quietly for as long as he was able. Which, for him, was only about ten minutes. “What's the diagnosis, Doc?”

"It's a very clean break, thank God." Bruce flipped the scan with a flick of his fingers. He gave Clint a reassuring smile. "Shouldn't cause any problems, and it certainly doesn't need any major intervention."

He sat down next to DJ on the couch. "See?" he said, pointing at the holographic display. "Right here." DJ leaned against his arm, blinking at the image. "One of your bones got overstressed, and broke." He zoomed in, magnifying the break. "That's why your arm doesn't work right. Why it hurts. Because you've got a broken bone.” DJ turned his stare to Bruce, his mouth turned down. Bruce smiled at him. “You've had broken parts before, right? That's what this is, just a damaged component."

DJ nodded, his face curious as he leaned forward. His good hand came up, reaching for his shoulder, and Bruce caught it with gentle fingers. "It'll hurt if you mess with it," he said, smiling. He pushed DJ's hand back down. "Leave the ice pack alone. That's helping, right?"

That one him another nod. "Luckily, your dad stockpiles cold packs down here," Clint said, grinning. "Mostly hoping to keep the rest of us from finding out how battered he is. So those, we got plenty of."

“Yes, you wouldn't know anything about avoiding medical care,” Bruce said to Clint, utterly deadpan.

“Not in front of the kid, please,” Clint said, giving him a smirk.

“Getting medical care is very important,” Bruce told DJ. “Don't follow your dad's example here. Or Clint's. Or Nat's.” He rubbed his forehead. “And Steve's not really a fan of it, either, I'm starting to see why he didn't tell anyone he was hurt.”

“Probably closer that he didn't know how to tell us,” Clint said, rubbing DJ's hair. “It probably hurt, and then you found out how to make it hurt less, because you stopped using it, huh?”

DJ nodded. He looked at Bruce. "Replacement?" he asked.

"What, for your broken part?" Bruce hid a smile behind his hand. "Sorry, little guy, but humans have to save that for really bad cases. A broken collarbone isn't life threatening, and we'd only have to operate if the break was bad, or misaligned. You, meanwhile, have done a perfect job in breaking your first bone." He stood up, closing out the holographic windows with a gesture. "It should heal without any problems."

DJ turned his gaze to Clint, who threw his hands in the air. "It's a miracle! It'll fix itself! All we have to do is wait."

DJ's lips turned down in a distinct pout. "How long?" he asked, suspicion clouding the words.

"For a little person like you, two to four weeks," Bruce said, and DJ's mouth dropped open. "Or it might fix itself when you switch back to being a bot. Hard to say, right now. What we want to do is hold it still and protect your arm until the bone has a chance to heal." He looked at Clint. "Luckily, there's a cache of SHIELD emergency supplies down in the storage rooms, in case the tower gets used for triage. There should be a sling that fits him down there, for now."

"That's it?" Clint asked. "Ice and sling?"

"Well, I'd like to give him something for the pain, to make it a little more comfortable, but that, I'm not comfortable doing without speaking to Tony or Steve," Bruce said. "In an emergency, I'm sure they'd trust me to deal with it, but that's not necessary." He dug through his bag. "We'll get you something so it doesn't hurt so bad, okay, Deej? For now, all I can offer you is a lollipop for being a good patient." He unwrapped it and handed it over.

DJ took it from him and tucked it in his mouth. "Fank vu," he said. His eyelids were drooping, and he yawned, nearly losing the sucker. 

"Classy, botbutt, classy." Clint rubbed DJ's head with a rough hand, and DJ leaned into the contact, smiling as he did. "So. His parents."

Bruce winced, his shoulders twitching. "Yes. Them."

Clint bit back a smile. "You want to deal with the panic, or the guilt?" he asked.

"That's a choice," Bruce said. He sighed. "I'm better with panic."

"Yes, you are. You are so much better with panic," Clint said. "I do not deal well with panic." 

"The person or the emotion?"

"You've got Tony, let's put it that way." Clint scrubbed a hand through his hair. "I'll take guilt." He leaned over, bumping his forehead against DJ's. "Doc's gonna get you all patched up, then Steve's gonna be back to put you to bed for a nap."

DJ blinked at him. "Four minutes," he said.

"Yeah, Steve said he'd be back in thirty minutes, and that's almost up," Clint agreed. He straightened up. "But I need to talk to him, so he's going to be late. Okay?" DJ nodded at him. "Good. So stay here and try not to break anything else. Understood?" DJ yawned. "I'm taking that as a yes," Clint said to Bruce.

"Seems like a legally binding agreement to me," Bruce agreed.

"That's why you're everyone's favorite, Doc." Clint scrubbed a hand over his face. “This is not going to be fun.”

“No, it's not,” Bruce said. When Clint gave him a look, he shrugged. “You can still take panic.”

“No. No, I cannot. He's your problem.”

*

Steve was already on his way back to the elevator, prompt as always, when Clint caught up to him in the hallway. Steve frowned, his eyes darting around, and Clint knew he was looking for DJ.

"I didn't leave him alone. He's down in the workshop with Bruce," he said, smiling. "And I told him you'd be late getting back. Can I have a word?"

Steve's brows dipped. “Of course, but now?”

“Kinda has to be now.” There was no good way to do this. Clint took a deep breath. "DJ's fine," he started, because that was always the most important thing, that was the cushion to the blow. "He's fine, he's safe and he's fine.”

Steve's eyes went sharp in an instant, his face going tight. “What happened?” he snapped out, and he was already moving up the hall. He was moving fast, not quite a run, but heading in that direction.

Clint grabbed his arm, trying to slow him down. It was like trying to put the brakes on an glacier. “He's fine,” he repeated. “And he's with Bruce.”

“But?” Steve snapped out, because the 'but' was still hanging in the air between them.

“But he broke his collarbone,” Clint rushed out.

“He BROKE-” Steve's head snapped around, and this time, Clint let him go. “You're sure?”

“Bruce confirmed it,” Clint said. He hustled to keep up with Steve, making it to the elevator just a step behind him. “Quick scan. He's sure, and he's got DJ icing it. We'll get him a sling, and all we have to do is keep him from moving it as much as possible, that'll keep it from hurting so bad and help it heal.”

“When,” Steve said, and Clint glanced at him. Steve's face was unreadable, pale and tight, his lips a thin line, and his jaw tight.

“When did he break it? Couple of hours ago,” he said.

Steve gave him a sharp look. “When? When, exactly?”

Clint took a breath. “Jarvis, hold the elevator,” he said, and the elevator stopped.

“Jarvis, belay that, workshop, now,” Steve snapped out. The elevator didn't budge, and Steve glared up at the camera in the corner. “Dammit, Jarvis!”

“I am sorry, Steve,” Jarvis said, “but perhaps for his benefit, you might take a moment to regain your composure.”

“Or just curse and kick stuff, that works for me.” Clint leaned against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest. “Kid's okay,” he said, his voice quiet. “He's with Bruce.” His eyes were locked on Steve, watching as Steve tried his best to pace in the small space. He was a whiplash of frustrated energy, his boots heavy on the floor with each step. Clint took a deep breath. "Jarvis says he took a fall this morning," he said. Steve cut a sharp look in his direction, his face blank. "He does that. A lot, Cap. He runs full tilt into everything, and he trips, and he falls, and this time, he just landed wrong.” He shrugged, an upward twitch of his shoulders. “Bruce is with him, says it's a clean break, it'll heal fine."

Steve turned and slapped a hand against the wall of the elevator. The crack of flesh against metal was surprisingly loud, and Clint jolted. Steve took a deep breath, his shoulders rising and falling. “Sorry.”

“It's fine, why do you think I snagged you before you went down?” Clint shrugged. "Cap, I broke my collarbone three times before I was twelve, it happens, it happens to kids, and-"

Steve gave him an incredulous look. "It happened because your father hit you."

"No, my father kicked the shit out of me, kinda different, but right now? I need my shoulders, and the fact that my collarbone's been broke a few times doesn't make any difference." He caught Steve's arm, and this time, Clint didn't let him pull away. "Hey. Look at me.” Steve glanced in his direction. Clint tried for a smile. “He's fine. And his father- You did not do this to him."

Steve's eyes were flat, his face expressionless. "No, I didn't. But I didn't see he was hurt, either." His face twisted. “How could I have missed it?”

“Because he's never really been hurt,” Clint pointed out. “He's stubbed his toe, or bumped his head, or fallen over, sure. And that hurts, and then after a few minutes, it hurts less and less.” He spread his hands. “Every experience he's had is that pain goes away if he ignores it and gets on with his life. So when this kept hurting, he just figured out how to move, how to hold himself so it would hurt less, but he didn't understand.

“He didn't understand that sometimes, he has to tell us he's in pain, so we can help him.” Clint's eyebrows arched. “He doesn't get that, because he has been very well protected and very lucky, but sometimes, shit happens.”

Steve stared at him. And then, his lips kicked up on one side, a lopsided sort of smile. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?” he asked, but his voice was calmer now. 

“Yeah,” Clint said. He straightened up. “He's going to be fine, Cap, but I bet he needs a hug right now.”

An expression crossed Steve's face that Clint couldn't read, but it was gone so fast that Clint really didn't have time to think about it. Steve nodded. “I know. Workshop?”

“Workshop. He's always been most comfortable there, no matter what his form.” Clint patted the elevator wall. “Thanks, Jarvis. I think we're good.”

“Of course.” The elevator started moving again.

Steve took a deep breath. “Clint?” Clint glanced at him. “Thank you.” Steve looked over, meeting his eyes. “For figuring it out what I missed.”

Clint shrugged. “You missed it because you've been with him all day,” he said. “And he was using his right arm at the beginning of the day. When I came in, he'd adjusted, to make it hurt less.” He looked up as the elevator opened. “As much as you love him, Steve, you're not going to catch everything.” He pushed away from the wall. “He's a complicated kid.”

“Yes, he is,” Steve said. His hands flexed into fists at his sides, just a momentary twitch, and then his fingers relaxed again. “We'll figure it out.”

“We're doing better than I thought we would, actually,” Clint said, and Steve chuckled. 

“We can still do better.”

“Wow,” Clint said, as Steve opened the door to the workshop, “high expectations.”

DJ was perched on the edge of the workbench, his arm in a SHIELD blue sling, an ice pack balanced on his shoulder. He twisted around when the door opened, his face lighting up as Steve walked in. “Hey,” Steve said, and again, his voice catching on the word. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Bruce said, smiling. “We found a sling, and had some water, and everyone's feeling much better.” He looked at DJ, who was perched on the edge of the couch. “Right, Deej?” he coaxed.

“Does it hurt?” Steve asked, and DJ nodded. “Aw, baby.” DJ's face crumbled up, and just like that, he was sobbing. Mouth open, head back, face twisted in misery, he howled. And his good arm reached for Steve, his fingers clawing at the air.

“Aw, Deej,” Steve said, sitting down next to him. DJ's fingers latched onto his shirt, crumbling the fabric with all the force his little hand could manage. Gently, Steve stroked a hand over his head. “I'm sorry, buddy, I didn't understand. I'm sorry.” 

DJ buried his face in Steve's side, crying in earnest now that he had the right audience. Steve's face creased in a fond, soft smile. “Poor baby,” he said, smoothing DJ's hair, his fingers stroking through the tangled strands. “It's gonna be fine. It's gonna be just fine, Deej. I promise.”

“I'd like to give him something for the pain,” Bruce said, his voice quiet. “We've never had to medicate him before, but Tony doesn't have any allergies, and DJ shares his genetics.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “A simple painkiller should help take the edge off of the pain, and once we get that under control, he just needs food and rest.” He smiled. “And time.”

“Yes. Of course, yes.” Steve leaned over, kissing DJ on top of his head. “Hey, Deej, wanna pick something to eat? We can have dinner early, because you missed lunch.”

DJ's head came up, and he blinked up at Steve. He sniffed, tears still rolling down his cheeks. “Anything?” he asked after a moment, his voice wobbling.

“Almost anything,” Steve said, trying to hide a smile. “We're not having cake for dinner.”

“Ask for pie,” Clint said in a mock whisper. “Pie's got fruit. He's gotta okay pie.”

“Stop it,” Steve told him, but he was smiling now. His fingers cupped DJ's cheek, his thumb stroking away a tear. “Deej? What do you want?”

DJ considered it. “Bao,” he said, wiping his nose on the back of his wrist. 

Steve leaned over. “We can do dim sum,” he said. “Okay?” Bruce appeared behind him, and Steve took the pills and a cup of water from him. “Dad's in a meeting, but he'll be home in a few hours, okay? Or do you need him now?”

DJ took the pills, and the swallowed them with a gulp of water. “No,” he said. He handed the cup back. “Have Steve.”

“Yes, yes, you do.” Steve kissed his forehead. “All right, let's figure out what you want to eat.”

Bruce caught Clint's eye and tipped his head towards the other side of the workshop. Clint pushed himself upright and followed him. “How'd it go?” Bruce asked, in a low voice.

“About as well as expected. How's DJ?”

“Better, now that he's got the sympathy he wants,” Bruce said with a faint smile. “Will you let the rest of the team know?”

“Everyone except Tony. I did my time.”

“Great.”

*

Tony took one step through the door and came to a dead stop. “What?”

Bruce pulled his glasses off, dropping them down on top of his tablet, and setting them both aside. “What?” he parroted back.

“What's wrong?” Tony asked. “What happened? What's-” His voice was rising, and he reined himself in. “Is it Steve? DJ? What happened?”

“What makes you think-”

“You're sitting in the damn foyer, this isn't normal, you're clearly waiting for me, so you've got news and it's you, not Steve, and Steve usually breaks bad news to me, Steve or Pepper, and it's not either one of them, so it's either a problem with one or them, or Steve is WITH someone who needs him more than me and this is, I'm not going to lie, this is not good, so can you please just tell me why you're sitting here?”

“DJ broke his collarbone,” Bruce said.

Tony nodded. He sucked in a long, thin breath, and let it out, his brain in overdrive. “Is he okay?” he asked. 

Bruce blinked, a quick flutter of his eyelids. “Uh, yes. He is.”

“Okay.” Tony headed for the elevator, yanking his tie off with one hand. “Details. Help me out here, Bruce.”

Bruce scrambled to catch up to him, feet sliding a bit on the floor as they both slipped into the elevator. “He tripped on something and fell. Landed with his weight on one arm. It was a clean break, Steve agreed that giving him a mild painkiller would be fine, and he's currently resting in the workshop with an ice pack and a steamed pork bun the size of his head.”

Tony took a breath, and his head swam with the force of it. He squeezed his eyes shut. “Right,” he said. And because he didn't have anything else to say, he repeated it. “Right.” 

“Are YOU okay?” Bruce asked.

“What?” Tony glanced at him, his eyes snapping open again. “What, am I- Yeah, of course. Of course I am.” He looked at Bruce, who was still studying him as if things were not going according to some internal plan. “Tell me he's okay.”

“He is fine.” Bruce smiled, lopsided and real. “He is safe, and Steve's with him, and he's milking this for all its worth,” he said.

“Good.” Bruce looked at him again, and Tony spread his hands. “What? Why are you making that face, what is- Why?”

Bruce smiled. “You're taking this better than I expected.”

Tony let out a snort. “I programmed that bot, Bruce. You have no idea how often I've dealt with his lack of spacial reasoning. He got stuck in a corner once for two days. Smashed his camera in on the corner of a workbench and proceeded to freak out about it so I had to chase him in circles for almost an hour before I could deactivate him and fix it.” He looked at Bruce. “He jammed a wheel on his own support strut once. I wouldn't have thought that was possible. I designed him, and I would've told you that there was no way that could happen.” 

“Still, this is his first accident as a child. It's a bit different than a bot needing repairs,” Bruce said.

“Yeah, well, when he's a kid, he's got my genetics, and you've seen what I've managed to do to myself.” Tony crossed his arms over his chest, rocking his weight forward and backward on the balls of his feet, wanting movement even though there was no where to go. “Figured it had to happen sooner or later.” He nodded, head bobbing up and down. “This is minor, and it happened here, and he's safe and he had people.” His eyes darted towards Bruce. “Right?”

“Right,” Bruce said.

Tony took a deep breath. “Thanks. For taking care of him.”

The elevator slowed, and Bruce nodded. “We may have, uh, spoiled his dinner. And his breakfast. Also possibly a few more meals, he ate a lot.”

“That, you can take up with Steve, I do not give a damn.”

“Steve's the one who ordered.”

“Then we've got no problems.” With a tight smile, Tony stepped off of the elevator, heading across the floor at a brisk pace. He didn't have to ask Bruce or Jarvis where to go, he just followed the trail of chaos.

Natasha and DJ were tucked together on one end of the couch, and Clint was slumped out at the other, his eyes closed and his mouth hanging open as he snored. Steve was sitting in the arm chair next to Natasha, his hands folded on his stomach, his legs thrown out in front of him. Dozens of empty take out containers were spread out on the coffee table in front of them.

DJ was curled into a ball, half buried in a variety of blankets and propped up by a dozen or so pillows. Beneath the multicolored fabric, the brat was wearing one of Steve's sweatshirts draped over his shoulders. It wasn't zipped and he wasn't using the arms, but the hood was up over his head like some bizarre cape. He had a juicebox balanced precariously on the blankets, and probably his updrawn knees under that, and he was chewing on the straw. His nose and cheeks were pink, and his eyes were big and dark, but he was grinning up at Natasha, his head tilted back to watch her as she read to him.

“Wow,” Tony said, drawing everyone's attention. “Wow.” He tossed his jacket in the general direction of a workbench. “I was actually worried, you little brat. But I get down here and you're breaking like seven rules at once, you've clearly eaten your weight in dim sum, and you're using your injury to get the attention of the prettiest girl you know.”

“Sounds like your son, all right,” Natasha said, setting the book aside as DJ's head snapped around, so fast that the straw pulled loose of the juice box. Steve caught it before it could end up on the floor, and set it on the table. DJ waved his good arm in Tony's direction.

“You're right, I'm strangely proud of him right now,” Tony agreed. He looked down at DJ, trying for a stern face. “Disaster of a Stark, you know that, right?”

DJ grinned up at him, straw still clamped between his teeth, the hood of the sweatshirt hanging down over the bridge of his nose. Tony reached out and pushed it back out of the way. “Hey, there's a kid under here.” He flicked the tip of DJ's nose with one finger, making him giggle. “What're the rules about breaking shit?” Tony asked.

DJ scrunched down in his blanket nest, curling into Natasha's side. “To not,” he said, the words careful. 

“Ah, so you do know the rules and just don't care about obeying them, good to know.” Tony crouched down. “Did you cry?” he asked.

“Yes,” DJ said, his voice solemn. “Lots.”

“Yeah, I know that one.” Tony reached out, smoothing a hand over DJ's head, pushing his hair away from his face. DJ leaned into the touch, grinning up at him. “No breaking things.”

“Okay,” DJ agreed.

Tony cupped DJ's face between his hands and leaned in, pressing his lips hard against DJ's forehead. He lingered there, just for a second, and another, breathing in the clean, familiar scent of his kid's hair. “Especially not the important things,” he said, pulling back. “What's important?”

DJ reached for his juice box, and Steve got there first, handing it over before DJ could fall off the couch and break his other arm. “Careful,” he said, his voice gentle.

“What do you say?” Tony asked, smiling as DJ focused on jamming the straw back into the juice box. The fact that one arm was pinned against his chest with a sling wasn't slowing him down at all. He just wedged the juice box into the blankets, then stabbed at the hole with the straw until it went in. It wasn't graceful, but he never had been. He got the job done, though, and then grinned first at Steve, then at Tony, and finally at Nat, before cuddling against her side again. Tony arched an eyebrow at him.

“Thank,” DJ said, going to town on his juice.

Tony tapped hm on the nose. “What's important?” he repeated, his voice soft.

DJ considered that. “Me,” he said, around the straw.

“You,” Tony agreed. He stood up, slapping his palms against his legs, hard enough to make his hands sting. Hard enough to make his legs sting, too. His eyes found Steve's, and there was relief in that, in Steve's steady presence. “You are a somewhat important thing. Just a little.” He tucked his hands in his pockets. “Not very important. Don't get your hopes up.”

DJ looked at Natasha, his eyes huge. She tried hard to keep a smile off of her face. “He is not telling the truth,” she said, amusement rolling through the words. “You're very important.”

Triumphant, DJ looked back at Tony. “She's biased because you're cute,” Tony said, and DJ yawned. He looked at Steve. “Did he have a nap?”

Steve shook his head, even as he pushed himself to his feet. “No. Someone-” He gave DJ a wry smile. “Was hungry and cranky. Thought if we fed him, he might decide to get sleepy.”

Tony nodded, looking at the containers. “Looks like you handled that part of it.”

“Yes, but it only worked on Clint,” Natasha said, her cheek braced on one fisted hand.

“We saved you some chow mein and cashew chicken,” Steve said, starting to pick up the empty boxes. “It's in the fridge.”

“Bless you.” He started pulling blankets away. “Want to take a nap?”

DJ yawned again, and nodded, his face scrunched up. “Nap,” he agreed.

“Okay,” Tony agreed. “Steve, do you want to-”

“Can you?” Steve shrugged, his hands full of trash. “I want to get rid of these before we add to the mold down here.”

“Hey, one time I let my coffee cups go green, and you never let me forget it.” Tony reached for DJ, who wriggled back, avoiding Tony's hands.

“Want Steve,” he said, and Tony gave him a look.

“Steve's picking up your mess, so you've gotta settle for me.”

“Probably easier if he stays here,” Clint said, his eyes still closed. “Lying down's hard with a broken collarbone. Easier if he just tucks himself up in the corner there. Supports his back and head.”

“Here,” DJ said, immediately. He blinked at Tony, his eyes wet. “Want to.”

“Want to stay here?” Tony asked, and DJ nodded. He glanced at Bruce, who nodded as well. “Okay. We can do that,” Tony said to DJ. “You need like, fifty percent less blankets, though, you're going to suffocate.” 

“No,” DJ said, his fingers sinking into the blankets.

“Yes!” Tony said, trying not to laugh. “Brat.”

“You can keep the sweatshirt, okay, buddy?” Steve asked, dumping the trash into the bin. “Want a drink of water?” DJ nodded, probably less because he wanted the water and more because he wanted the attention. “Okay.” Steve dusted his hands off on his legs, heading for the sink.

“Chair?” DJ asked Tony. 

“You want to sleep on the chair, not the couch?” DJ nodded, and Tony kissed him on the forehead. “Okay. Move it, botbutt.”

Natasha waited until DJ shifted his weight, and then slipped up from the couch. “C'mon, Barton, get your lazy ass up.”

“Don't wanna,” Clint said, throwing his arms out to the sides. DJ giggled, and Clint nudged him with a foot, making him laugh again.

“That's why we never ask if you want to,” Nat said. She grabbed one of his legs and yanked him around. With a groan, he pushed himself up and blinked sleepily at the room at large. “Help me pick this up.”

“I can-” Bruce started, and Clint was already standing up.

“I hate you all,” he said, grinning.

“All of us?” Steve asked, walking back in with a glass of water. “Even Deej?” He handed Tony the glass. 

“Especially DJ,” Clint said, grinning down at DJ. “Right, Tinkertoy?”

“Love you,” DJ said, grinning. With Tony's help, he took a drink of water, and settled down into the chair cushions. It was exactly the right size for him to tuck his legs up next to him, snuggling down into the cradle of the arms. Tony tugged the hood of the sweatshirt back over his head.

“We love you, too,” he said. He stood up, studying DJ's sleepy face. “Jarvis, lower the lights, and give him some white noise.”

“Of course, sir.” 

Everyone was quiet as they gathered things up, threw them away, tidying things in some minor way. Bruce, Nat and Clint headed for the elevator, and Tony gave them a nod. Steve didn't seem to notice that they'd gone, his attention focused on the now quiet pile of blankets.

Tony touched his arm. “Hey,” he said, his voice quiet. “You okay?”

“Fine,” Steve said. The word was still and clipped, utterly empty of inflection. 

“Hey,” Tony repeated, stressing the word. Steve looked at him, and Tony arched his eyebrows. “You okay?”

Steve took a deep breath, and let it out, and some of the strain went out of his face with it. “I didn't realize he was hurt,” he said, his voice low.

Tony leaned against the workbench. “He's fine,” he said.

“He's got a broken bone,” Steve said, his voice sharp. Sharper than Tony'd expected it to be.

“And it'll heal and he'll forget about it and he'll probably break another one doing exactly the same thing, because he's a little bit too much like me, Steve, and that means he's got more energy than sense, and sometimes his feet are gonna get ahead of his head,” Tony said, cheerful about it. He reached out with one hand and wrapped it around the back of Steve's neck. “He's fine,” he said, dragging Steve into a hug. Steve held himself apart for an instant, tension vibrating through his body. “He's fine,” Tony repeated, trying his best to sound authoritative, and Steve relaxed into his arms.

“Sorry,” he said, his arms wrapping around Tony's waist. 

Tony hugged him tight. “He's fine, Cap,” he said. “Let him get some rest.”

Steve nodded. “Tony? Can we stay here for a little bit?”

Tony rubbed a hand up his back, feeling the tension in the muscles there. “The couch is free,” he said. “I gotta eat, and you've got a sketchpad around here somewhere, 'm sure.”

Steve exhaled. “Thanks.”

“Or you could feed me,” Tony said. Steve pulled away, just far enough to give him a look. Tony's eyebrows arched. “What? I have had a stressful day.”

“You've had a stressful day?” Steve asked, but he was smiling. “You have?”

“I have,” Tony agreed. He gave Steve a light nudge towards the couch. “Let's go. Bet if he wakes up, he'll be glad to find us here.”

*

“I am gone for no more than a day and return to a team mate so grievously injured?”

Steve looked up as Thor came striding into the kitchen, Mjolnir thrown over one shoulder and an oversized reusable tote from Whole Foods swinging easily from his other hand. He dropped both on the counter and crouched down to meet the DJ's headlong rush for his legs. “Let me see,” he said, bracing his forearms on his knees. DJ pointed at his arm, still safely tucked away in its supportive sling, and Thor gave a slow, considering nod. “Ah, it is fine, you did not lose any limbs at all.”

“Broke,” DJ told him, incensed. Steve hid a smile behind his coffee cup.

“I see! Still, a break mends, and quick enough at that.” Thor ruffled his hair with an easy hand, and DJ leaned into it, appeased. “And in the meantime, you may spend many an hour bragging about the mighty battle that lead to such a thing.”

“He tripped over his toybox,” Steve said, leaning his chin on one hand. “Not so much a mighty battle as a bad hop.”

“This, too, I have experienced,” Thor told DJ. “But my bad hop was out a window.” He straightened up with a grin. “A lesson hard won to remember exactly what floor one might be upon before taking such a route next time.”

DJ was staring up at him, something like awe on his face, and Steve patted his seat. “Stop giving him ideas,” he told Thor, who just laughed. “And you, get back here and eat your breakfast before you cereal dissolves completely into mush.”

DJ made a face, but hopped back in the direction of the table, his arm jerking in the cradle of the sling. Steve snapped upright, halfway to his feet before he even realized he was doing it. “Hey, don't-”

Thor scooped him up, swinging him into the air and onto his shoulder. “Come, little one, and I shall carry you, triumphant, to your reward!” DJ let out a shriek of joy, the fingers of his good hand latching onto Thor's hair. Thor didn't seem to notice.

Steve's hands came up, hovering uselessly in the air as Thor crossed the kitchen, stopping only to do a quick victory lap around the island that dominated the center of the cooking space. DJ, grinning, leaned against Thor's head, his face flushed and his eyes dancing. When they reached the table, Thor slid him carefully into his seat, and swept him a low bow.

Steve subsided into his chair, his heart pounding, his breathing rough. He reached for his coffee, locking his fingers in place around the warm, smooth porcelain. “What do you say?” he asked DJ, the question rote and familiar. It helped, a little, to not concentrate on the feeling of panic that was clawing at his chest, a strange panic that he couldn't even begin to explain.

“Thank,” DJ said, and he reached for his spoon, oblivious to the way that Steve's voice shook.

Thor, however, hadn't missed it. He gave Steve a slightly perplexed look, and Steve waved him off, burying his face in his coffee cup. Thor's head tipped to the side, his eyes going narrow, but he turned back to the counter. “My lady mother sends her regards and affection. I have brought you cakes from the palace kitchen,” he said, over his shoulder. “Eat your breakfast, and perhaps you may have one as a snack today.”

DJ gave Steve a hopeful look. “We'll see,” Steve said, his face relaxing enough for a smile. “First, finish your cereal.” 

Obediently, DJ dug his spoon into his cereal, his fingers fisted around the handle. Eating left handed wasn't easy, but he was doing pretty well for himself, eating with more enthusiasm and stubbornness than grace. There was milk and toast crumbs and bits of mushed up Cheerios all over the table, and probably on the floor, but DJ managed to get the spoon into his mouth, milk dripping down his chin.

Without thinking, Steve's hand came up, his fingers hovering in mid air for a moment before he pulled it back. “Use your napkin,” he said, instead, pushing it towards DJ.

DJ dropped his spoon back into his cereal, splashing milk everywhere, and reached across the bowl for the napkin. Steve had a split second to see disaster coming, but not nearly enough time to stop anything from happening.

DJ's elbow clipped the bowl, and it flipped, milk splashing across the table. Steve grabbed for the napkins, Thor grabbed for DJ.

“Careful!”

The word came out as a shout, and Thor froze, holding DJ up in front of him. He stared at Steve, his face puzzled. “Of course,” he said, calm and placating. He lowered DJ down to the ground, his hands cradling DJ's sides until he was steady on his feet, and then pulling back. 

Steve avoided his gaze, heading for the sink to grab a dishcloth. “Deej, you okay?”

“Yes,” DJ said, and when Steve turned back around, he was scrubbing his sticky fingers on his shirt. Thor leaned back against the counter, cupping a hand over his mouth to hide his smile. Steve glared at him, and Thor gave a 'what can you do?' sort of shrug, his eyes dancing.

Steve sighed. “Jarvis, has Tony left for SI yet?”

“No, he is currently shaving.”

“Okay, could you ask him if he has time to get DJ changed before he leaves for his meeting?” Steve asked, wringing out the dishcloth and crossing back to the table. Milk was dripping onto the floor, onto DJ's chair, and Steve shook his head. “How did you have this much milk left?” he asked DJ, who shrugged, and licked his palm.

Thor caught his wrist and tugged his hand away from his mouth. “Do not,” he said, smiling down at DJ. DJ considered that and wiped it on Thor's leg instead. Thor didn't seem to mind. Steve wondered if all of Asgard was stain resistant, or if it was just Thor.

“Sir says that he will accept your offering of a soggy progeny only if you agree to have coffee and toast ready for him when he gets down, as he is running a bit behind schedule,” Jarvis said. He paused. “I have reminded him that he is always running a bit behind schedule, and at this point it is taken as expected by those he meets with, so he should have adequate time to assist DJ.”

“How'd that go over?” Steve asked, his mouth twitching. He wiped the table with a couple of quick, efficient strokes, trying not to make the mess worse than it was.

“As well as could be expected. He is finding DJ a fresh shirt.”

“Thank you, Jarvis.” Steve smiled down at DJ, who had found a Cheerio on his shirt. “Don't eat-” he started, but it was too late. DJ popped it into his mouth. “Okay, time for a wardrobe change. Want to go back upstairs, and your dad will find you a fresh shirt?”

DJ nodded, but his attention was caught on Thor's bag. “Not yet,” Thor told him. “Cakes are for those who are clean and presentable.” DJ switched his gaze to Thor, his lower lip sticking out. Thor just grinned at him. “Off you go, unless you want me to accompany you?”

DJ shook his head, and headed for the kitchen door. His bare feet slapped loudly against the tile, and he swerved from side to side, watching his feet more than where he was going. He bumped against a cabinet, his body thumping against the wood, and he wobbled backwards, trying to rebalance himself. Thor reached out, a hand in the center of DJ's back steadying him.

“Be careful, Deej,” Steve said, and it wasn't until milk started dripping down his arm that he realized he'd squeezed the washcloth into a knot. “Maybe I should-”

But DJ just grinned up at Thor and bounced out of the kitchen. The door swung shut after him, and Steve dropped the washcloth to the floor. Frustrated, confused, he wiped up the puddles of milk. As if from a distance, he heard Thor's booted feet cross the floor to stand next to him at the table.

“Is all well?” Thor asked, his voice quiet.

Steve looked up. “Fine,” he said. And then, frustrated, he repeated it with more force. “It's fine.”

“It is fine and DJ is fine,” Thor agreed, lowering himself into a seat at the table. “But are you?”

Steve bit back the desire to say something rude, and instead took a long, slow, steadying breath. “Yes,” he said. Thor made a considering sound under his breath, and Steve pushed himself up, wadding the washcloth up in one hand. “I'm fine.” He threw the milk soaked cloth towards the sink with a bit more force than was absolutely necessary.

Thor folded his arms on the table. “It is a small injury, Steve, and he seems in good spirits.”

“He's fine,” Steve said. Coffee. Toast. He could live up to his end of the bargain. He grabbed a loaf of bread from the basket, and a knife from the block. 

“Bruce says he will likely heal quickly,” Thor said, his voice quiet. “Do you not believe this?”

“No, I'm sure he will.” Steve dropped the slices of bread into the toaster. “We'd-” He took a deep breath. “We were hoping that if he went to his bot form he might-” He let out a huff of laughter. “Reset, I guess, is the best way to put it. That when he went back to his human state, the break would fix itself. Tony was looking at it kind of like a debugging procedure, that the damage wasn't consistent with his usual human form, so it might be corrected, and he'd go back to an earlier build.”

He stopped. “I don't really understand, but it was a pretty good working theory.”

“But it did not work?” Thor asked.

“It did and it didn't,” Steve said. “It's still broken, but Bruce says scans look almost like he put the healing process on fast forward. The damage is still there, but his body started to fix itself.” He leaned back, rubbing a hand over his face. “It's definitely shortened his estimated heal time, but-”

“But it was not an instant fix,” Thor said.

“No, either because this is the first big thing he's had to try to deal with, or just that this is as much as the magic and his body can sustain,” Steve said. “Whole thing's a mystery, anyway, we're all at a loss as to how he does things and how they work, so... We've still got a lot to learn.”

He ignored the dark little voice in the back of his head that asked if they'd ever learn. If they'd ever know enough, if they'd ever know anything at all. DJ was the only one with any sort of control, and if he understood what was happening, he wasn't saying.

Or maybe, just had no way to say.

“We have tools you do not,” Thor said. “He can seek treatment with my people, you know that.”

Steve tried to smile. “Thanks, you know we appreciate that, but no. It's a minor thing, it's-” He swallowed hard, his throat working. “It's not life threatening, Thor, and we've already talked to Stephen Strange, he agrees that mixing additional magics, if we don't have to, is a bad idea. We're already dealing with an unstable situation, there's no reason to take the chance.”

He took a breath. “He'll be fine.”

Thor nodded. “He will.” He leaned back in his chair. “We will be careful this afternoon, I promise, he-”

“I think I'll stay today.” Steve looked down at the toaster, at the reflection of his own clenched fists in the smooth, mirrored surface. “He's-” His throat worked. “I already called over to SHIELD, let them know I wasn't coming in, Nat's going to take my place.”

Thor was silent. “You know he is safe in my care, do you not?” he asked at last, and there was something like hurt beneath the haughty, regal demand. Steve looked up.

“Yes,” he said. “I do. This isn't about him. Or you. It's-” He shook his head. “It's about me.”

Thor nodded. “There is naught I can do to change your mind, but I made promises to him, that I will not break, not even for you, so I shall join you both this afternoon.” It wasn't a question, but Steve nodded anyway. Thor smiled. “Do not be concerned, I brought enough cakes for you, as well.”

“The kid'll probably scam me out of them, but it's nice that you tried,” Steve said.

“Here, child, dry and mostly combed,” Tony said, hustling through the kitchen door with DJ propped on his hip. “Coffee. Now. Live up to your family responsibilities, Rogers, or you're out.”

“Coffee's in the pot, toast is-” The toaster chose that moment to pop, and Steve got the slices onto a plate. “Here, I'll get the peanut butter and you're good to go.”

“I don't want peanut butter,” Tony said, and added, “Hi, Thor, how was fun times with dear old dud?”

“My father is ever predictable, but finds new ways to be as such,” Thor said, grinning.

“Sounds about right.” Tony set DJ down, and DJ scrabbled for the table.

Steve watched him go. “Did you cut a shirt up the side and then tie it back into place?” he asked, stymied.

“I am not trying to get that arm into a sleeve, you are out of your mind, he's fine with it,” Tony said, taking the plate of toast out of Steve's hand and brushing a kiss across his slack mouth. “Love you, kid, don't break anything, that goes double for you, Thor, and Jarvis, inform Clint it goes triple for him.”

“You cut his shirt-” Steve started, but Tony was already out the door and gone, leaving Steve glaring at the swinging panel. “Deej-”

“No,” DJ said immediately. He clambered back into his chair. “Like my shirt.”

“Today might be a good day to introduce you to the toga,” Thor said, and Steve gave up.

“We're not inviting Clint.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for a very confused, very anxious child, and a pretty big dad fight about said child, but not involving him.
> 
> Tony's holding up pretty well. Steve... Is not.

Bruce shoved another pushpin into his bulletin board, and pushed his chair back to study the effect. His head tipped to the side, a faint frown crossing his face. It could work. It would work.

“Bruce?”

He glanced back over his shoulder at the door. “Hey, Steve,” he said, smiling as Steve stepped in. “Did you, uh, did you forget my patient?”

Steve hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “No, he's coming.” A wry smile twisted his lips. “Just very slowly.”

Bruce stood up and crossed to the door, peering around Steve. DJ was in fact coming, picking up a foot with slow, deliberate care, and then putting it back down. He repeated the process with his other foot, moving at a pace just above glacial as he moved towards Bruce's cozy medical suite. 

Steve put his hands on his hips, a faint smile curling his lips. “Okay, slothy-sloth, come on, move it.”

DJ peered up at him from under his eyebrows, and wandered forward, moving absolutely no faster. Bruce gave him an encouraging smile. “Tired today?” he asked.

“He's been a bit pokey,” Steve said. To DJ, he added, “Come on, now, I can't carry you everywhere, baby bot.”

DJ plodded into the office, heading for the medical bed where he always sat for his checkups. He stopped there, waiting for a boost, but Steve was looking at the pictures Bruce had tacked up. Bruce shrugged off a vague feeling of unease, and managed a smile for DJ. “Want a hand up, or do you want to use your stool?” he asked.

DJ stared at Steve, who didn't seem to notice. Finally, his good hand tangled in the fabric of his shirt, he turned and scrambled awkwardly up the step stool and onto the bed. Once seated, he stared blankly at his bare feet, his toes curled up tight.

“I'll be right back,” Steve said to Bruce. Bruce opened his mouth, not sure what he was going to say, but Steve wasn't listening any more. “Deej, stay here with Bruce until I get back, okay?” With a quick smile, he was heading out the door and gone.

Bruce stared after him, confusion and a dawning sense of something being very wrong settling in the pit of his stomach. He glanced back over his shoulder. DJ hadn't moved, his shoulders slumped, his head down, and Bruce ran a hand through is hair.

“Okay, Deej,” he said, infusing his voice with as much enthusiasm as he could manage, “know how every time you come in for your checkup and I ask you how you're doing? And that's a hard question for you to answer? I thought I could make it a little easier for both of us.”

Bruce settled down on his chair, scooting it over so he was seated right in front of DJ. “So I made a chart, just for you,” he said, trying to sound encouraging. DJ looked up, his face expressionless. Bruce adjusted his glasses with a flick of his fingers, and picked up the large chart he'd arranged. DJ's head turned in that direction, the movement almost robotic, as Bruce put the chart down next to him on the bed.

“See?” Bruce pointed at the row of pictures on the chart. “It's the Wall-E chart, because we both like Wall-E, right?” That won him a slight nod. Encouraged, he continued. “Okay. So, here, on this end, we can see Wall-E after he's crushed by the plant pod. A lot of systems are broken, and he's having trouble doing even the most basic tasks. He needs a lot of help, because he's hurting badly.

“The next picture, it's Wall-E from the beginning of the movie, where he's able to do his job, but his treads are all damaged, and he has trouble moving around until he replaces them.”

DJ was watching him intently now, his eyes blinking quickly. Bruce smiled, and DJ smiled back, just a little. 

“And this picture is just Wall-E as he normally is, right?” Bruce asked. “A little rough, he's been hit by a lot of windstorms and sometimes his parts don't work so well, but he's okay, that's normal for him.” He pointed to the fourth picture. “And in this one, it's after he's gotten all cleaned up by Mo, on the ship? So he's able to work a bit easier, a bit better.”

Bruce pointed to the last picture. “And here, Wall-E's been fixed up by Eve, so all of his damaged bits have been replaced, and he has a full battery charge and he's working at one hundred percent.”

He stopped, and DJ looked expectantly up at him. “Now, if you had to say which one of these Wall-E's you felt like, physically, which one would you choose?”

DJ stared at the chart, his face scrunching up with a frown. And then, he reached out, hovering his finger between the fourth and fifth pictures. “Somewhere between those?” Bruce said, tapping them to be sure he understood, to be sure that DJ understood, and DJ nodded. “That's fine. Thank you for, for thinking about it that carefully.” He reached out and tapped the second picture. “If you ever feel like this, or especially if you feel like this-” He tapped the first one. “Then you need to come here and if you can't tell me, you can just point.” He met DJ's eyes. “I'll understand, okay?”

DJ considered the picture of the smashed Wall-E, and then gave a slow, careful nod. He reached up and rubbed at his shoulder. 

“Thank you, DJ,” Bruce said. “Now. Second chart!” DJ made a face, and Bruce bit the inside of his cheek to keep a straight face. “I know, I know, but be patient with me. This one isn't about how your shoulder feels, or about how your body feels, it's about your emotions. Okay?”

He scooted his chair around and pointed at the corkboard beside his desk, where he'd arranged a dozen pictures from various points in the movie in a neat grid. “Wall-E again,” he said, and DJ's face relaxed in a little smile. 

“You might not feel like any of these, or you might feel like a combination of a bunch of them,” he explained. “Try to think about the scenes, and what was happening to Wall-E in each one, okay?” DJ nodded, focusing in on the pictures with that single minded intensity that was just like his father's. Bruce leaned back, giving him time to think about it without any pressure.

There was a happy Wall-E, dancing with Eve through space. A curious Wall-E, as he tried to figure out what his newest treasures were and where they belonged in his collection. A friendly Wall-E, as he talked to one of the humans on the ship, and tried to help. A frightened Wall-E, watching what he thought was someone hurting Eve. A frustrated Wall-E, as he fought to get the plant back. Wall-E doing his job, brisk and efficient as he stacked up blocks of compressed trash. 

DJ reached out, his hand hovering in mid-air for a long moment. And then, he pointed at a picture on one corner of the grouping, one that Bruce had included almost as an afterthought.

Bruce looked at it. Wall-E, watching as 'Hello Dolly!' played out on his battered television, his hands folded together in front of him in a strange parody of holding hands. Bruce reached up, pulling it off of the board to study it. Then he looked down at DJ. “This one?” he asked, holding it up. DJ stared at it, his face unreadable, and then he nodded, a slow, deliberate dip of his chin.

Bruce took a deep breath. “Okay.” His mind clicking away, he looked up at the door, then back to DJ. “Is that all you're feeling? Want to pick any others? It's okay to feel more than one thing at a time.” DJ looked up at him and he smiled. “It's pretty normal, actually, to feel a whole bunch of things at the same time. Sometimes-” 

“Hey.” Bruce turned in his chair as Clint leaned into the room, his hands braced on the doorframe. “Steve got a call, he wanted me to let you know he'll be up as soon as he can,” he said to Bruce. He grinned at DJ. “How's it going, gobbledy-gears?”

DJ blinked up at him, his face still and quiet, and his fingers sank into the fabric of his pants. His good shoulder rose in a shrug. Clint's smile dimmed, his brows drawing together. “Ooooooookay,” he said.

Bruce took a deep breath, and stood up. This was probably a bad idea. It was a bad idea, but... He glanced at DJ, then back to Clint. “Hey, Clint?” Clint looked at him. Bruce forced a smile on his face. “I am feeling sad,” he said. His arms were crossed over his chest, and he made a deliberate effort to put them back down at his sides. “I, uh, I'm feeling sad, and I think a-” His face felt painfully hot, and the fact that Clint was staring at him as if he'd lost his mind wasn't helping, but he kept on, dogged and determined. “I think a hug would help.”

Clint's eyes narrowed, his mouth hanging open a bit. “What?” he asked at last, and Bruce gritted his teeth.

“Can I have a hug?” he asked, trying to make each word clear.

“I don't think I'm getting you here-” Clint started, and then Natasha was there, her palm clipping the back of his head. He jerked forward, his hands coming up to cover his head. “Hey, ow, what the-”

“Bruce,” she said, her voice weighted, “needs a hug.” Her eyes flicked towards DJ, who was watching them with clear interest. “And he's asking you to help.” Her eyebrows arched. “So...”

“Okay, geez, fine!” Clint looked at Bruce. “Anytime, Doc, it's just, usually you don't like people in your space, so you just caught me off guard.” He opened his arms, and Bruce had to brace himself for the contact. But Clint's arms wrapped around him without any force, telegraphing what he was about to do before he did it, no surprises, no sudden moves. And Bruce found himself relaxing into the embrace.

Clint's chin ghosted against his shoulder. “You okay?” he asked, the words almost inaudible. Bruce opened his mouth to answer, and nothing came out. He went with a nod instead, quick and sharp, and Clint's arms tightened, a tiny, almost unnoticeable flex of his arms, and then he was letting go.

Bruce leaned back, trying to smile. “Thanks,” he said, and then, not sure where to go from that, added, “Thank you, that was...” His voice trailed away, and he reached up to pull his glasses off of his nose.

Clint's hand closed on his shoulder, the contact familiar and comforting. “Any time, Doc,” he said. For a second, Bruce leaned into his grip, and then forced his head up, forced a smile onto his face. Clint met his eyes with a wide, lopsided smile. “Everybody needs a hug sometimes.”

“That's true.” Nat was still leaning against the doorframe. “I would like a hug, too,” she said, a faint smile on her lips.

“I don't want to hug you,” Clint said, crossing his arms over his chest. “You hit me. That makes me feel less huggy towards you, because I think your hug is a trap. A trap so you can hit me again.”

Bruce could see Nat's eyes dancing, but she managed to keep something close to a straight face. “You're right,” she said, pushing herself upright. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have hit you. It's wrong to hit people.”

“Well, it's wrong to hit me,” Clint said. “I don't care about other people.”

“Wow, Clint,” Bruce said, biting back a smile, but DJ was giggling behind him.

“Hey, I'm honest,” Clint said, but he held out his arms. “C'mere, Tasha.” 

She slipped into his arms, her hands sliding around his back, her fingers smoothing over the fabric of his shirt. She rested her head against his shoulder, her eyes dipping closed, and Clint's arms folded around her. She smiled, and Clint rested his chin on her head. “Goddamn, you are tiny.”

Nat kicked him in the ankle.

“Ow! No, I'm serious, you're like, what are you, three feet tall? I'm not tall, but you're-” Laughing, Clint hugged her tight, mostly pinning her arms to her sides so she couldn't punch him. “The itsy-bitsy Tasha went up the waterspout-” he sing-songed against her hair. His breath left in a huff as she managed to jam her elbow in his side. “This is why no one hugs you, Nat!'

“That is a lie,” Bruce told DJ, who was watching this with wide eyes, a huge grin on his face. DJ considered him. “Lies.”

“Not a lie, she is so violent and-” Clint was laughing as he hauled Nat up against his chest, lifting her until her feet were off the ground. Nat, for her part, was pink cheeked and grinning, her eyes sparkling as she tried to kick him in the knee. “She is the worst.”

“Worst,” DJ agreed, a broad grin on his face.

Nat gave a mock gasp. “I expected this kind of character assassination from this idiot,” she said, breaking Clint's hug hold without any difficulty. “But you, too, DJ?”

“Worst,” DJ repeated, his eyes dancing. Laughing, Nat ruffled his hair with both hands, and then cupped his cheeks to lean over and kiss him on the forehead. She whispered something to him, something soft and gentle, something Bruce thought was probably a Russian endearment. DJ's eyes squeezed shut, his cheeks flushing. Even when Nat released him, her fingers sliding away from his face, he kept smiling, bright and happy.

Bruce leaned forward, catching his eye. “It's okay to ask,” he said, trying to sound encouraging. DJ looked at him, a frown crossing his face. “It's okay to ask for a hug,” Bruce clarified.

“Unless you're Nat,” Clint said, and Natasha turned on him, her feet sliding over the floor with intent. Proving he did have a survival instinct, Clint fled, ducking around Bruce's chair and behind DJ's bed. Natasha was a step behind him, and DJ head swiveled to watch chase each other in circles, giggling as Clint scrambled to stay out of reach.

Bruce smiled. “Sometimes, it's hard to tell what other people want and need,” he said, as carefully as he could. DJ's gaze snapped back to him, his dark eyes bright. “Like, sometimes, you get hungry, and we don't know. So you ask for a snack.” He paused. “Right?”

DJ's eyes closed in a slow blink. Then he nodded.

“Sometimes, we have to ask for the things we need,” Bruce said, smiling. Clint darted around his chair, his feet sliding across the tile, and Bruce ignored him with a force of will. “And it's easy to ask for a cup of water. It's harder to ask for a hug. Even if we need one just as much.”

DJ's fingers picked at the hem of his shirt. “Hug?” he asked, his brows drawing up tight.

“Do you want a hug?” Bruce asked, and DJ nodded, slowly at first, and then with more force. “Okay.” He took a breath, slow and careful, bracing himself. It was still hard. It was hard to resist the urge to pull back, to put something like a safe distance between himself and this small, fragile child.

Every time he reached out, it was with that fear in the back of his head. He was never free of it, it wasn't something he could forget or ignore. But it was something he could overcome, if he had to. If he had enough of a reason, he could shove that dark green fear down, and do what needed to be done.

He wrapped his arms around DJ and hugged him close. Because if DJ was brave enough to ask, he'd be brave enough to say yes.

“Deej, I need you to come hug me,” Clint said, bracing his hands on an unoccupied bed. Across it, Natasha waited, braced, to see where he'd go. He feinted left and went right, and she vaulted over the bed, snagging the back of his shirt. “DJ, save me.” Clint held out his hands, and DJ slipped away from Bruce and hopped down from his bed, across the room, and into Clint's arms. 

Bruce leaned back in his chair as Clint scooped DJ up. “Can't kill me, I have a child now!” he said, and Natasha's eyes narrowed. Clint skipped back a step, DJ held easily in one arm, and Natasha lunged. She managed to hug them both while DJ laughed and Clint made high, panicked noises.

“This is a trap!” Clint said, even as Natasha planted a smacking kiss on his cheek, and then a gentler one on DJ's. DJ's good arm came up, his fingers stroking over the smooth waves of her hair. She turned her head, letting him play with the strands for a moment, a fond smile on her face.

“It's pretty hair, isn't it?” Clint asked. DJ nodded. “But ask next time, okay?”

“Okay,” DJ said. To Natasha, he said, “Sorry.”

She smiled. “Thank you.” She pressed another kiss to his forehead. “And you can play with my hair whenever you want.”

Clint grinned. “Hey, Thor's downstairs. While we wait for Steve to finish up with his work, wanna go braid Thor's hair?”

DJ's eyes went wide. “Yes,” he said, with a great deal of enthusiasm. 

Laughing, Clint looked at Bruce, DJ propped easily on one hip. “You done with the kidlet, Doc?”

Bruce nodded, reaching for DJ's medical chart. He'd planned to go over it with Steve, but he was starting to suspect that it wasn't going to happen. He should probably run a scan on DJ's shoulder, but he could do that any time, and right now, DJ was relaxed and calm, curled in Clint's sure grip. 

Bruce flipped the folder open, pretended to check some things, and closed it again. “We are done,” he agreed with a smile. “Thank you, DJ, you were a very good patient.”

“Want to come braid Thor's hair with us?” Clint asked. DJ nodded, and Bruce bit his lip to keep from laughing.

“I think I'll pass,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Besides, you don't know if Thor wants his hair braided.”

“Thor is so weak when it comes to the small child,” Clint said, a wicked grin on his face. “He is an absolute pushover. Bet we'll manage it. Nat, you coming?”

Nat was studying the display Bruce'd made, a faint smile on her face. “I'll be right there. Try not to make too much of a mess.”

“We make no promises, do we, tinker toy?” Clint asked DJ.

“No promise,” DJ agreed, leaning his head on Clint's shoulder. He smiled at Bruce. “Thank.”

Bruce smiled back. “You're welcome.” He pulled his glasses off and pointed them in Clint's direction. “No braiding with his injured arm. He's healing up really well, but I want that arm to stay in the sling.”

Clint gave him a grin. “We'll be careful, Doc.” He looked down at DJ. “Right? Careful?” DJ shook his head no, and Clint sighed. “What've I told you about lying until we're away from the adults?”

“No lying to your doctor!” Bruce called after them, but Clint was already out the door and away, laughing as he went.

“You made this for him.” 

Bruce's head turned, finding Nat still considering his custom pain chart. He put his glasses on, and then took them back off, frowning down at the lenses. “Yes, well, he responded better to it than he does to the regular 'smiley face' chart for pain levels.” He rubbed them against his sleeve, his head down. “He responds to familiar things, so I think, uh, that it might help.”

Nat turned to the bulletin board, her fingers trailed over one of the pictures. “You did a good thing just now,” she said, her voice quiet. Bruce shrugged, and heard her sigh. “It goes for you, too, you know.”

Bruce's eyes darted up. “Uh, what, what does?”

She smiled. “That sometimes we don't realize that you need a hug,” she said. 

That startled a laugh out of him. “Oh, no, no, I'm fine, Natasha, it's...” He shook his head. “It's fine.”

“No, it's not.” She paused, her fingers hovering over the bare spot on the board. “I understand why you'd be wary about being touched, and we try to respect that, but-”

Bruce stared down at his reflection in the lenses of his glasses. His image warped and wavered as he twisted his glasses between his fingers. “When do you ask for a hug?” he asked, cutting her off. Nat fell silent, and he glanced up. “I mean, you-” He stopped, frustration sweeping over him, and jammed his glasses back onto his face, more comfortable when they were on his face, for some reason. “Never mind, it's just-”

“I don't have to,” Natasha said, her voice quiet. “I got lucky. I don't have to ask. I just show up on Clint's doorstep, and...” She paused. “He knows. Coulson knows, too.” Her fingernail dug into the flexible surface of the corkboard, in that hole that he and DJ had made. “I show up on their doorstep, and they...” Her lips went tight, and she glanced at him, her face unreadable. “They understand me.” Her eyes dropped, and she reached for the picture that Bruce had pulled down from the board.

“I don't have to ask,” she said, a faint smile creasing her cheeks. “Clint knows my boundaries and when I need something I can't vocalize. But you're harder.”

He smiled. “Thank you, but, uh, I'm fine.” She nodded, but there was something watchful and careful in her eyes. Bruce let out a breath, rocking back in his chair. 

“Can I ask you something?” she asked, looking back at the pictures. 

Bruce glanced up. “Sure.”

“Why is this one down?” she asked, holding up the picture. It was the one DJ had chosen, with Wall-E staring up at the screen, his face lit by the reflected light of the video. 

Bruce leaned back in his chair. “I asked DJ to tell me how he was feeling, and that's, uh, that's what he chose.” He paused, his mind churning. He reached for DJ's chart, bracing his hand on it. “Nat?” She glanced at him, and Bruce met her eyes head on. “What's going on with Steve?”

Natasha was still for a second, and Bruce took a deep breath. “You know what I'm talking about,” his said, his voice quiet. “Don't you?” 

Her face was all the answer he needed, but after a moment, she nodded. “I don't know. But something's wrong. Something's off.” She held the picture out to him. “Think we need to do something?”

Bruce took the picture of Wall-E from her. He considered it, his mind racing. “I think we do.” He tucked the picture into DJ's chart. “I just don't know what.”

*

“I don't know what I expected.”

Steve put his hands on his hips, torn between amusement and dismay as he stared down at DJ. DJ, unrepentant as always, stared back up at him. He held up his paint brush. “Paint,” he said.

“Yes,” Steve said, with all the gravity he could manage in that short word. “That is certainly paint. Paint...” He shook his head. “Everywhere.”

DJ grinned, the white flash of his teeth stark against the paint splattered canvas of his skin. Steve was actually relieved that there wasn't any in his mouth. Because it was everywhere else. “How did you manage this?” Steve asked him.

DJ gave a little hop, and Steve's hands came up as his arm twitched in the sling. “Talent!” DJ crowed, waving his paintbrush. A glob of bright orange paint went flying, hitting Steve's arm with a wet splat. 

“I lost sight of you for about ten minutes, so yes, you do have a talent for making a very big mess in a very short amount of time,” Steve agreed. DJ's pants and shirt probably weren't salvageable; the fabric was marred with huge swaths of multiple colors of paint. His hair was matted, formed into weird, paint covered spikes, as if DJ had dipped each lock into a different paint pot before moving onto the next. There was paint on his hands and his feet, on his arms and on his face, and he grinned at Steve, clearly proud of his handiwork.

Steve pressed both hands to his face. “Jarvis,” he said, through his fingers, “how much of the carpet are we going to have to replace?”

There was a pause. “None,” Jarvis said. “He chose the water soluble poster paints for his most recent project, and did his painting in the tiled workbench area.”

Steve took a deep breath. “Okay. Small plus.” He dropped his hands to find DJ hovering right in front of him, his eyes bright and hopeful. “You're in a lot of trouble right now, you know that, right?” Steve asked him, because he had to try to maintain a sense of authority here. DJ considered that, his mouth pursing. Then he gave a one shouldered shrug, and Steve bit back a smile. “Right. Clean up time. And first?” He braced his hands on his knees and leaned forward. “Bathtime.”

The smile melted off of DJ's face as the full horror of his situation sank in. He shook his head. Steve nodded. DJ took a step back, slowly, cautiously, as if he didn't think Steve wouldn't spot the movement if he was careful enough about it. Steve arched an eyebrow. “Good try, but-”

DJ broke and ran. Steve, caught off guard, made a grab for him, muscle memory bringing his hand up before he could even realize what he was doing. His fingers brushed against the fabric of DJ's shirt, and the shock of the contact was like he'd grabbed hold of a live wire. He snatched his hand back so hard that he stumbled back a step, swaying on his feet.

It all happened in the space of a breath, in what seemed like a single heartbeat, but by the time he got himself back under control, DJ was gone. For another moment, Steve just stood there, his breath coming in rapid heaves, ignoring the way his hands were shaking at his sides. 

He shook his head hard. “Jarvis, do not let him out of the playroom,” he ordered. “Let's contain the damage.”

“Of course,” Jarvis said, and there was a sustained cry of betrayal from the other side of the room. Jarvis sighed. “I do not know what you expected, DJ, of course we are not going to let you back out into the tower in such a state.”

Steve smiled. “Maybe there was a lack of foresight happening here,” he said, peeking into DJ's book corner. The bean bag chairs were heaped up, books scattered across the floor, and DJ's shirt was there, hooked on the corner of a bookshelf, but it's owner was long gone. Steve collected it with a shake of his head. 

There was a faint thump behind him, and Steve turned, heading in that direction. He did his best not to look towards the workbench area, because that was a mess for later. But as he started towards the center of the room, he stopped, arrested by the sight of a single bright orange footprint on the edge of the carpet. He waited for anger, for frustration, but he couldn't manage it. Somehow, it seemed artistic, a single perfect footprint, each toe clearly defined on the soft plush of the carpet.

He looked up just in time to see a flash of pale skin disappearing behind the big tree at the center of the playroom. “Do not go climbing,” he said, absolutely meaning it now. He broke into a run, his heartbeat accelerating as he thought of DJ trying to get out of reach with only one arm. Tony had made the thing fall proof, there were nearly invisible safety nets everywhere, but Steve didn't want to risk it. “Deej, don't-”

Dummy peeked around the edge of the tree, the blue sling still hanging from his support strut.

Steve stopped short, relief hitting him hard. “Oh, is this the plan?” he asked, struggling against a smile. Dummy nodded with a great deal of enthusiasm, and Steve bit the inside of his cheek. “This is not a good plan,” he said, trying to sound stern. “This is, this isn't going to work, kiddo.”

Dummy inched towards the door, the cuff of his pants still stuck in one of his wheels, and Steve reached out, grabbing onto his support strut. “Stop, before you get all tangled up,” he said, and Dummy rocked forward and back, his wheel whining as he tried to get it loose. Laughing out loud, Steve leaned in, bumping his forehead against Dummy's camera. “What did I just say? Stop, let me help you, you daft bot.” Dummy straightened up, then rested his head on Steve's shoulder. 

“Thank you,” Steve said, pulling the sling off of his arm and dropping it and the remains of his shirt onto a nearby table. He took a seat on the ground and slipping a hand under Dummy's base. The bot was heavy, but nothing he couldn't manage, especially since he only had to lift him a few inches to wiggle the jeans loose. “There we go.” He set Dummy back on his wheels, and held up a hand for a high five. Dummy gave him one, and then tangled Steve's fingers in his claw.

Steve rocked back, raising one leg so he could rest his arm on his knee. “So this is your plan?” he asked, his head tipped up towards Dummy's gleaming camera. “Get filthy and then change into a bot to avoid a bath?” Dummy nodded, and Steve reached up with his free hand, rubbing it back and forth on Dummy's support strut. “Bad plan.”

“He seems to think it is quite ingenious,” Jarvis said, and Steve laughed. 

“Yeah, you would, wouldn't you?” Dummy rolled backwards, and tried to scoot around him, and Steve hooked him with one foot. “What makes you think I won't just throw you in the bathtub anyway?” Dummy started to roll away, dragging Steve with him. “I can do that,” Steve said, ignoring the way his ass was bumping along the carpeted floor. It was hard to talk through the laughter, but he managed it. “I'm still bigger than you, buddy, I can still put you in the tub!”

“He believes he is now bigger than the tub,” Jarvis said.

“Maybe your tub, I'll just bring you up to your dad's tub, his is huge, I bet I could fit all three of you bots in it,” Steve said, and Dummy swung to one side, then to the other, and Steve let him go, flopping out on the carpet. “I think the bot wash idea has merit, Jarvis.”

“It would be a unique business venture,” Jarvis agreed.

He stared up at the ceiling, smiling, until Dummy appeared above him, his head tipping from side to side as he considered Steve. Steve smiled up at him. “Hi,” he said, and Dummy leaned in, tapping him lightly on the forehead. Steve's smile stretched, and he reached out with a broad hand, giving Dummy's head a stroke. Dummy leaned into his palm, his servos whirring as his arm flexed. “Ready for your bath?”

Dummy rolled backwards, then extended his arm to it's full length, flopping it down on top of Steve, pinning him in place. “Really?” Steve asked. “This is really what we're doing right now?”

Dummy's head, propped next to his shoulder, bobbed in a nod, and Steve burst out laughing.

“Dummy, did you catch a dangerous intruder?” 

Steve tipped his head to the side, smiling as Tony came wandering across the room, his hands in his pockets. He'd lost his jacket somewhere, his hair was a tousled mess, and his tie was loose and crooked. “Hi,” Steve said, and Tony tipped his head to the side, his eyebrows arching.

“Dummy, do I need to call security? Or do you have this crazy man immobilized?”

“He believes that he's done an adequate job of subduing the dangerous villain,” Jarvis said.

“I am trapped,” Steve agreed. He raised his arms and then let them flop back to the floor. “Shouldn't have tried to outsmart the bot.”

Tony crouched down next to them, rubbing a hand over Dummy's head. “Good boy,” he said, his lips twitching. “I can take it from here.” Dummy's head lifted a bare inch to consider him, and Tony spread his hands out. “What, you think I can't take this guy? I can take this guy, and I do not appreciate your lack of trust in my abilities, I'm taking that personally, because if you can put this guy down, I sure as hell can keep him there, so take yourself off, and-”

Dummy raised his arm and as soon as he did, Steve lunged. Tony went down, his limbs flailing, and for a moment, they rolled across the floor in a tangle. Tony's back hit the ground, and Steve grinned down at him, straddling his hips, his hands gripping Tony's wrists. “Hi,” Steve repeated, and Tony grinned up at him.

“Okay, so maybe I can't take this guy,” he said, and, laughing, Steve leaned over for a kiss. He could feel Tony's smile against his lips, and he loved it.

A polite tap on his shoulder brought his head up before the kiss got too far out of control. Under him, Tony was still laughing, low and easy, his body lax and his dark eyes heavy-lidded. “Save me,” he said to Dummy, and Dummy tucked his arm under Steve's chest, gently pushing him away.

Laughing, Steve rolled off of Tony, sitting down next to him. “How was your day?” he asked, as Tony pushed himself into a sitting position. 

Tony pushed a hand through his hair. “Well, this is the best part of it,” he said with a wry smile. He held up a hand. “Come here, tater bot. You're squeaking somewhere.” Dummy obediently dropped his head into Tony's lap, and Tony started checking his linkages with quick, practiced fingers. “We bottin' it today?” he asked, his eyes tipping in Steve's direction.

Steve leaned back on his hands, bumping his feet against Tony's. “A good mix,” he said, smiling as Tony wiggled his toes against Steve's instep. “He's trying to avoid a bath right now.”

“Clever,” Tony said, and Dummy's head bobbed in a nod. “Not going to work, though.”

“It might,” Steve admitted. “Worst case scenario, I'm going to get a damp rag and give him a quick rubdown.” He huffed out a breath and rolled to his feet. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Tony watching him, appreciation obvious in the sly curve of his smile. Not above encouraging that, Steve stretched, arching his back and flexing his shoulders. Tony's eyes went dark, and Steve grinned at nothing in particular. “You need anything from your workbench?”

Tony's thumb swept back and forth against Dummy's support strut. “Just grab my kit, thanks.”

Steve nodded, turning towards the door. He should've expected the firm smack to his ass, but it caught him off guard anyway. He turned back around, giving Tony a 'really?' look, and Tony pointed at Dummy. “It was him,” he said with a straight face, and Dummy's head came up to stare at him. “Shhh,” Tony told him in a mock whisper. “Cover for me.”

Dummy shook his head slowly and deliberately.

“You're lucky you're cute,” Steve told him, fighting hard against a grin. “Hands off the goods, mister.” He headed out of the playroom, leaving Tony to wolf whistle at his back. “You're horrible!” he called over his shoulder, glad Tony couldn't see his grin or the way his cheeks were flushing.

“You love me!” Tony yelled back.

Steve was still chuckling when he got back, carrying Tony's compact toolkit and a wet wash cloth. “Here,” he said, handing the kit over.

“Thanks,” Tony said. When Steve took a seat next to him, Tony leaned in for a kiss. Steve met him halfway, his free hand sliding around the back of Tony's neck to stroke his hair and play with the fabric of his collar. When Steve pulled back, he caught Tony smiling, and couldn't resist stealing another kiss, quick and sweet. Tony laughed against his lips. When Steve pulled back, Tony gave him an amused look. “Aren't you affectionate tonight?” he asked.

Steve reached out and smoothed his hair back. “You looked happy,” he said. 

Tony arched an eyebrow at him. “Is that so unusual?” he asked, opening his toolkit with a flick of his hand.

“Not unusual, I just like it,” Steve said. He shifted forward, wiping the wet cloth along Dummy's support strut. 

“Only you would find general cheerfulness to be a sexual turn on,” Tony said.

“I hope to God that's not true,” Steve said. “Because if it is, I'm going to lose a lot of faith in humanity.” He scrubbed at a particularly stubborn spot of paint on Dummy's side, and Dummy's head swung around to check on what he was doing. “Hold still,” Steve said, smiling at him. “Your dad's trying to get your squeak out.”

“I will be chasing this squeak forever,” Tony grumbled at Dummy. “I swear you cultivate squeaks so you can get more attention.”

Clearly satisfied with his place between them, Dummy resettled his head back in Tony's lap. “Attention mooch,” Tony said with a fond smile. Grinning, Steve leaned forward to concentrate on getting Dummy clean.

The gentle touch of Tony's fingers sliding through his hair brought his head up. He smiled as Tony's hand cupped the side of his face. “What?” he asked, bringing his hand up to cover Tony's.

Tony shook his head. “Nothing. Just... Glad to see you smiling.”

Steve pressed a kiss to his palm. “So, general cheerfulness is a turn-on for you, too.”

“You're a general turn-on for me. You and your ass,” Tony said, and ducked as Steve swiped at his face with the washcloth. “No! No, it's covered in bot germs, no, don't you-”

Dummy arched up, bouncing against Tony's chest, and tumbling him onto his back. Laughing, Steve pressed a kiss to Dummy's head, his hands cradling Dummy's camera. “See, that's why you're my favorite,” he said, and Dummy leaned into his hands.

“Hate you both,” Tony said, sprawled out on the ground, and Steve laughed.

“Back to work, Stark,” he said, and tapped Dummy's camera with one fingertip. “Love you,” he mouthed, and Dummy nudged up against his chest. It wasn't verbal, but Steve could hear him, loud and clear.

*

“Deej?” Tony dismissed the alarm with a slap of his hand. “Hey, Deej, you done, because you need to get cleaned up before dinner, so-”

Tony swung around on his stool, and stopped dead as Dummy went rolling by. “It's almost dinnertime,” he said, frowning. “Do you not want dinner?” Dummy's head swung from side to side, and Tony leaned back on his stool, his arms crossed over his chest. “Okay. That's okay, you know that's okay, I'm just a little surprised, you were talking to Bruce about what you wanted for dinner just a couple of hours ago. Want us to save yours in the fridge? You can have it next time you feel like being human, okay?”

Dummy's head bobbed in an enthusiastic nod, and Tony reached out to stroke a hand over the length of his support strut. “Okay,” he agreed. “You want to help me with this still?” Dummy's head swung towards the fabrication units, and Tony hooked a foot around his main strut. “Oh, no,” he said. “No, no, no, do not bother the fabrication units, they are doing their jobs effectively, which is more than can be said for you, you brat, you can help me here, or you can go pick up the play room, or-”

Dummy abruptly changed direction, rolling away from Tony towards the door. Tony, almost unbalanced by the sudden shift, grabbed for the edge of the workbench to keep from toppling over. “Or you could ignore me completely,” he said, his voice wry. “Sure. That's an option. That's something you enjoy doing, don't know why, not like I've done anything for you lately, I mean, who am I to demand any attention or respect from you, that's not going to happen, so I guess-”

A flicker of movement on the stairs brought his head around, and he twisted around. “Ah,” he said, bracing an elbow on the bench. “That... Explains it.”

He wished it didn't. But he was sick of pretending.

The door swung open and Steve strode in, his shirt rumpled and his boots caked with dried mud. “Hey, guys,” he called, a grin splitting his face. “Clint wanted me to tell you that dinner's almost done, time to set the table, Deej-”

Dummy rolled up, wheels squeaking as he rocked back and forth in front of Steve.

There was a split second of disappointment, a moment where his face fell, and then Steve covered it with his usual easy smile. “Hey, Dummy,” he said. Dummy rolled in a wide circle around him, arm bouncing up and down. Steve grinned, reaching out to run an easy hand up Dummy's support strut. “How're you doing, light of my life?”

“Thought that was me,” Tony said, going back to his work. 

“No,” Steve said, heading in his direction, Dummy swerving back and forth in his wake. Steve leaned over, and Tony tipped his head up to meet his kiss halfway. It was warm and familiar, with just a hint of heat, and when they broke apart, Tony caught himself smiling, almost against his will. Steve grinned down at him. “You're the love of my life.”

“You talk big for a guy who hasn't been around much lately,” Tony said, pointing a screwdriver at Steve's chest. “Thought this was a one day op, not a three day one.” 

Steve opened his mouth to respond, but Dummy's head slipped under his arm, pressing in against Steve's side. Laughing, Steve rubbed a hand over his head. “Well, at least someone still loves me,” he said, and leaned over to bump his forehead against Dummy's camera. Dummy bounced up and down, making him laugh. “No dinner tonight?” 

“He's going to charge,” Tony said, looking down at the fragmented remains of the gauntlet he was working on. “We're going to put his dinner in the fridge for him; he can have it tomorrow if he wants to.”

Steve nodded. “Right.”

“But right now, he's going to go clean his play room, because he left a giant mess in there,” Tony said. He slanted a look towards Dummy, who tried to duck behind Steve. “Didn't you?” Dummy shook his head, and Tony struggled against a grin. “Oh, really? You didn't leave a mess at all?” Dummy considered that, then held up his claw, the tips a bare inch apart. “Small? A small mess? Is that what we're calling it?”

Dummy swung his arm around to Steve's other side, head bobbing in a nod.

“I'm just calling it a mess,” Tony said, amused by the little brat's antics. “Go pick it up, please. Maybe if you ask nicely, Butterfingers and You will help you.”

Dummy's head twisted around, and the other two bots straightened up. There was an instant of bobbing and bouncing, and some agreement was made, because all three of them rolled off towards the hallway that lead to the playroom. Tony watched them go, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “No hiding piles of stuff under other piles of stuff!” he called after them. “I'll know! I know these things! I'm omniscient!”

Steve gave a cough that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. Tony glared at him. “Omniscient?” Steve asked, his eyebrows arching. He moved around to the other side of Tony's workbench, giving his work a curious look.

“Shut up,” Tony said without rancor. “I'm working on it.”

“I live in fear.” He leaned his hip against the workbench, his arms folded over his chest, his head turned towards the hallway where the bots had disappeared. “He's been a bot a lot recently, hasn't he?” Steve asked. 

Tony reached for a set of pliers. “He's not stupid, Steve.”

Steve glanced at him, his eyebrows tucking down. “I wish you wouldn't say things like that,” he said.

“Things like-” Tony leaned back, spreading his hands wide. “Enlighten me. What 'things like that?'”

“Would you love him any less if he was actually-” Steve's face screwed up. “Stupid?”

Tony's eyes rolled up towards the ceiling, a spike of irrational irritation slamming through him. “Oh, for fuck's sake-” he said, and Steve cut him off.

“No, I'm serious. His intelligence, or even his lack of what is conventionally regarded as intelligence, doesn't make up his worth, and I wish you wouldn't use it as an insult, it's-”

The spike of rage caught him off guard. Tony braced both hands on the edge of the bench and pushed himself to his feet, the stool scraping against the floor with a harsh shriek. “Okay, fine,” he said, tossing the pliers down. They hit hard, clattering against the gauntlet, sending it spinning across the surface of the bench. “Fine, let me rephrase.” He leaned forward, his hands white knuckled where he gripped the edge of the workbench. “He's a very smart kid, Steve, and he figures out very quickly how to get what he needs. So you don't get to blame him when he does just that.”

Steve's brow wrinkled. “Tony, what-”

Tony spoke over him, his voice rising. “You don't touch him anymore. And he's figured that out, Steve. He's figured that out through trial and error, he's figured that out because when he's a child, you. Don't. Touch. Him. Anymore.”

He bit off each word, anger mounting at a rate he hadn't expected. Steve was staring at him, his eyes wide, his face slack with something like shock. Tony knew he should feel bad about this, or maybe he shouldn't, he didn't know anymore, but there was something to this that he didn't want to think about, didn't want to even acknowledge. He just kept talking, the words spilling over themselves, hard and fast and almost violent.

“He's figured it out, and he's figured out the way to get what he needs is to be a bot. Because when he's a bot, you're fine with him, you're fine with touching him, and when he's a kid?” Tony swept out a hand, and something went clattering to the ground. “When he's a kid, you aren't.”

Steve's face was white, his eyes hollow. “Tony-”

“Know what that means?” Tony asked. “It means he's altering his behavior-” He stopped, rage washing through him, hot and caustic, and he fought to get himself under control. It was a losing battle, and he knew it, and he was used to those. “No. To get what he wants, what he needs, he's forced to change himself. You're fucking with his sense of self right now, Steve. And that?” He gave Steve a tight lipped smile. “You don't get to pull that.”

He was breathing hard, his chest flexing with the force with it. “So whatever you've got going on, Steve? Deal with it. Deal with your shit, because you don't get to fuck his life up because you've got issues. Don't do that. Don't-”

His voice broke, and something else broke with it. “You have no idea how badly that can fuck him up, Steve, you can't just-” His teeth locked in place. “You've said it to me enough, so right now? Take your medicine, and deal with your shit. Because whatever your problem is, it's becoming his problem, and we're not doing that.”

Steve was still, his eyes hooded. “Who's we?”

Tony's head swept from side to side. “The whole family.” He met Steve's eyes, and it hurt, the whole thing hurt, but he wasn't dealing with that right now. He couldn't deal with that right now. “You need to figure this out, Steve, because he needs something from you that he doesn't get from anyone else, and you can't-” His throat closed, and he choked on the words. 

In the silence that followed, his indrawn breath was loud. “You can't do that to him,” he said, and his voice ached.

Steve's eyes slid away from his, and Tony wanted to throw something at his head. “I hurt him.”

Tony leaned forward, his shoulders hunching as he tried to make sense of that. “What?” he said at last.

Steve took a breath, and when he let it out, it shook. “I picked him up,” he said, his voice flat. “I didn't realize that he'd-” His mouth went tight for a second, his jaw a sharp line. “I hurt him.”

Everything fell into place with a nearly audible click in his mind. “Because he'd already broken his-” Tony stopped, leaning back. He shoved a hand through his hair. “Steve. He was hurting because he had a broken bone, not because you picked him up, Jesus Christ, you can't-”

“I can't hurt him!” Steve's hands crashed down on the bench with enough force to rattle everything. He stared at Tony, his face white, his eyes agonized. “Every time I go to touch him now, I can't forget the way he-” He sucked in a breath, and another. “He screamed. I keep...” His shoulders slumped. “Hearing that.” He shook his head. “I can't hurt him, Tony, I just...” His voice trailed away into nothing, into a lost and broken exhale.

Tony stared at him for a long moment, then looked away. “You think this isn't hurting him?” he said, the words quiet. “You think this isn't confusing the hell out of him?” He let out a chuckle, wry and harsh. “I get what you're saying. God knows, I'm terrified of hurting him, too, but-”

“But you're not me.” Steve held his gaze for a second, then pushed himself away from the bench, the gesture violent. “You're not me, and you do not understand.”

“Right, you're the special snowflake here, forgot about that,” Tony said. He turned on his heel, putting physical distance between them, because he needed that right now. “Don't know what that's like, being afraid of losing my temper or losing my grip and falling into old family patterns.” His hand snapped through the air, pulling up a schematic from the database at random. “Know how long it would take me?” He smiled up at the glittering rows of numbers, neat and precise, ordered and understandable. “Approximately a second. That's how long it would take for me to backhand him into a wall, Steve. It happens fast.” He reached up, fingers delicate as he shifted a connection, changing the flow, changing the outcome. “I'd know.”

There was only silence behind him, and he shifted his weight. “That's my problem. Not his. This?” He flicked a hand through the air. “This is your problem. Not his.” He stared at the flow of numbers until they went blurry, until they stopped making sense. He rubbed a hand over his face. “Look. I can't-” His teeth snapped together, and he sucked in a careful breath. “I cannot do this. Not right now. I love you, I love you so much, but right now-” His fingers flexed in midair, and he forced them straight.

“Right now,” he said, his voice controlled. Careful. “I think it's best if you go have dinner.”

Steve was silent for a moment. “Are you coming?”

Tony took a breath, and another, and tried to ignore the way his head was buzzing at him. “Not right now,” he said. “I'm going to go, and monitor the pickup process.” His shoulders rolled. “They need supervision.”

He heard Steve shift. “Right.” Another pause. “I didn't think...” His voice trailed away. “I'll put a plate for you in the fridge. And DJ's in tupperware.”

Tony nodded. “Thanks.” He moved something on the schematic, and he didn't even know what anymore. “Steve?” He looked back. Steve was facing away from him, halfway to the workshop door. “No matter if he's a bot or if he's a kid, he's going to be expecting you to read him a story tonight.” Tony took a breath, and another. “It's your turn. And you changed your schedule without telling him. You were gone for two days, and he wasn't expecting that.” Tony took a deep breath, clinging to his control with both hands. “He's confused, and anxious, and it's your turn to read him a story.” To reassure him, he wanted to add. To convince him that everything is all right, to help him understand. 

Tony wasn't sure anyone understood at this point, but they could fake it. They were good at faking it, all three of them.

Steve nodded. “I won't forget.” He didn't look back, he just stepped out the door and headed for the stairs. 

Tony watched him go, and closed the schematic with a flick of his hand. “Jarvis, how're they doing?”

Jarvis was silent for a moment. “Only minor damage to report, sir.”

Tony's face relaxed in a smile. “Yeah, that about sums it up, doesn't it? Tell them to behave, I'm on my way.”

“Sir, it-” Jarvis started, and Tony turned.

Dummy's head poked around the doorway, his headlong rush going slower, and then rolling to a confused stop. His head swung from side to side, a quick glance at first, and then with a growing sort of desperation. Tony bit back a curse as the bot stilled, his head drooping down. “Hey,” he said, trying to make his voice gentle. “Steve went to get some dinner. He'll be back tonight to read you a story.”

He blinked, opening his mouth to say something else, probably something stupid, but he didn't get a chance. Before he could even draw a breath, Dummy had disappeared, leaving a very small, very still boy in his place. DJ looked up at Tony, his expression lost and confused. Tony swallowed the lump in his throat with a force of will and reached out, hands smoothing over DJ's head, over the soft weight of his hair. “Okay, kiddlet,” he whispered, his voice rough. “Okay. Let's... Get you some clothes, okay? Rules. There are rules. What're the rules?”

DJ's lower lip trembled, and he blinked hard. “Pants,” he said, his voice quiet.

“Right.” Tony managed a smile for him and pressed a kiss to his forehead before heading for the tool chest where he kept a spare set of sweatpants and shirt. There was a sling there, as well, and he knew that was Steve's doing. His fingers locked on the fabric for a second, hating him and loving him so much that it hurt, and Tony wished he wasn't who he was. Wishing Steve wasn't who he was.

There was a sniffle, and he turned. DJ was scrubbing at his face with his good hand, rubbing his wrist against his already red nose. Tony's heart twisted in his chest, and he grabbed the clothes, shoving the drawer closed with a smack of his hand.

“Hey, what, are you crying?” Tony asked, and DJ's head came up. His cheeks were already wet, his eyes full of unshed tears, and Tony tried to smile. “Okay. Right. Come here.”

DJ plodded towards him. His eyes red, his nose running, he stopped in front of Tony, blinking hard. All it did was make the tears fall faster. It only took a few minutes to Tony to wrestle him into the pants and shirt, carefully supporting his arm until he could get the sling into place. DJ stood placidly, letting him do it, his face blank and tears rolling down his cheeks.

“Come here,” Tony repeated, once DJ was dressed again. He scooped DJ up and settled them both on the stool in front of the workbench, DJ in front of him, tucked between his legs. DJ was tense for a second, and then he relaxed back against Tony's chest. “How's this?” Tony asked, smoothing a hand over DJ's forehead, pushing his hair back. “You can sit with me for a while.”

DJ tipped his head back, looking up at Tony, then back down at the bench. “In the way?” he asked, the words halting and soft.

Tony gritted his teeth against the urge to say something unforgivable, something that DJ didn't need to hear, didn't need to know. He sucked in a breath, and it burned his throat. “You're always in the way,” he said, pressing a kiss to DJ's hair before he wrapped an arm around DJ's chest in a one-armed hug. “Always. I'm used to it.”

DJ gave a watery little giggle, barely audible, but definitely there. Tony kissed his head again, and DJ leaned into the contact. “I'm sorry,” he whispered. “God, kiddo, I'm sorry. I-” I'll make it right, he wanted to say, he wanted to promise, but he didn't know how. And he lied so much to DJ as it was, he made up so much of this as he went along, this whole fatherhood thing. He was flying blind, and DJ knew it, DJ didn't seem to care, but Tony cared. Tony cared far too much.

“I love you,” he said, because that he could say and mean, that was stable, that was rock solid. 

DJ nodded, his head down towards the bench. He reached out, poking a screwdriver with one finger. “Does Steve?” he asked, and Tony's eyes shut.

“Steve's...” He took a breath, and held it for a second. “Steve needs time,” he said at last. “I think he's scared, that's all. Steve needs you to be patient with him. He'll... He'll get over it, Deej.” DJ looked up at him, brown eyes big and wet, and Tony tried to paste a smile on his face. “But yes. He loves you.”

DJ looked back down, and Tony cast about helplessly for something useful to say, something useful to DO. “Okay,” he said, and it came out a bit too loud. DJ jerked against his chest, his head coming up, his eyes huge. Tony pasted a smile on his face. “Right. I'm was trying to get some work done before you showed up and got in the way and you know what that means?” He arched his eyebrows.

DJ thought about that, his mouth pursing. “Help?” he said at last.

“Kid's brilliant. Yes, that means you get to help,” Tony said.

DJ's legs kicked out, one bare foot clipping the side of the workbench. “No.”

“Yes,” Tony said, because DJ was relaxing by stages, the strain going out of his face, his voice, his body. Familiarity was the best tool he had now, to soothe, to reassure. Tony reached for a wrench. “Now, since you are down an arm, you are useless.” He paused, and DJ looked up at him. “Wait, you usually only have one arm. And you are usually useless.”

DJ grinned at him. “No.”

“Yes!” Tony leaned forward, pressing a kiss on DJ's forehead. “Useleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeess,” he said, holding up the wrench, temptingly close. DJ made a grab for it, and Tony held it up out of reach. “Uuuuuuuseleeeeeess,” he said, and DJ was giggling now, even as he managed to grab the wrench. He held it up, his face triumphant, and Tony wrapped an arm around his waist in a half-hug. “Know what you are?”

“Not useless,” DJ said, his chin up.

“Well, I don't know,” Tony started, and DJ smacked the wrench against the workbench. “Okay, that was loud, but still pretty useless, so I-” DJ banged the wrench down, over and over, reveling in the noise it made, and Tony let him, because he knew what it was like to have all that fear and frustration weighing him down.

Sometimes, smacking a tool against the uncaring, unyielding surface of the workbench was cathartic.

“I think you've punished the workbench enough,” Tony said, after a few loud minutes. “The workbench and my eardrums.” He pressed a kiss to DJ's head, and DJ stopped, leaning into his embrace. Tony reached for a tissue from the nearby box. He mopped at DJ's cheeks, wiping his eyes and his nose. “Ready to work?” 

DJ stared up at him. He raised the wrench and smacked it down one more time. Then, bright and sure, he said, “Yes.”

Tony smiled. “Glad to hear it, brat.” He tossed the tissue towards the nearest trash can. “Work, we understand work, don't we?” DJ nodded with a great deal of enthusiasm. “That's my kid.” Tony pressed one last kiss to his head. “Let's do something, okay?”

They both understood work. People were harder. People were a lot harder.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which people discuss the things that are bothering with them, but probably not with the people they should be having those discussions with.
> 
> Warnings for discussions of how abuse and abandonment affect children, but without any real discussion of the abuse itself.

“Hey, right on time, grab some plates,” Clint said, grabbing a pot off the stove with one hand and opening the oven door with his foot. “Phil's running late, so we're going to-”

“Sorry, not hungry.” Steve didn't precisely stomp through the kitchen, but he moved with the sort of very focused deliberation that made it obvious that he didn't expect anyone to get in his way.

Thor, who took that kind of thing as a challenge, paused in the act of pulling glasses out of the cabinet. “This is a lie,” he said, tipping an empty water glass in Steve's direction. “There is no time when you are not hungry.”

Steve wrenched the fridge door open, ducking in and coming out with a bottle of water. “Don't feel like eating.” And he headed back towards the door. Bruce, who'd just emerged from the pantry to see what was happening, had to scramble out of his way. “Sorry.”

Bruce straightened his glasses. “It's, it's okay, where's-”

“Can you put Tony and DJ's dinners in the fridge?” Steve asked, with a tight smile. “Thanks.”

And just like that, he was gone, leaving the kitchen door swinging wildly in his wake. It had all happened so fast that Clint hadn't even had a chance to put the pot down, and now he realized that the heat of the metal handle was starting to bleed through the potholder. He dropped it back to the stove with a muttered curse.

Natasha, her hands braced on the kitchen table, let out a sigh. “Jarvis, are Tony and DJ not coming to dinner?”

“They will not be up this evening,” Jarvis said, his tone apologetic.

“Is Steve headed to the gym?” she asked, folding her arms over her chest.

“It would appear that this is his intended destination, yes.”

There was a beat of silence. Natasha let out an almost inaudible sigh. “How bad was their fight?” 

“It was not the worst they've had,” Jarvis said.

“Well, that's diplomatic,” she said, her eyebrows arching.

“I am known for my diplomacy,” Jarvis said.

“Shocking, considering your creator,” Clint said. He reached for a spoon. “Fine. Whatever. I slave over dinner and only like three people show up, that's fine, not like I care, why would I care?” He slapped the cover back down on the pot. “I'm burning their portions, just so everyone knows.”

“Just the sort of rational response that we'd expect from you,” Bruce said.

“If you expect rationality from anyone here,” Clint said, with a shake of his head, “you're an idiot.” He tossed the colander in the sink and dumped the pasta out. “Eat. I'm not dealing with them or their problems until after dinner.” He reached for the sauce. “I'll go deal with Steve once he's had a chance to punch something that isn't me for a while.”

“About that-” Bruce said.

“About what?” Clint said, picking up a plate and dishing out a heaping portion of pasta, sauce and vegetables before handing it over to Thor.

Bruce took the second plate he filled. “I think I should talk to Steve tonight.”

“Really?” Clint stared at him. “You want both of them? I mean, fine, it's your funeral, Doc, but-”

“No-” Bruce gave him an apologetic smile. “I think you're going to need to talk to Tony.”

“Oh, no.” Clint gave Nat her plate and held up his hands, ignoring the way that he was dripping tomato sauce all over the floor. “No. No, no, no.”

Bruce gave him a slight smile. “Clint...”

“No,” Clint said. He stabbed a finger in Bruce's direction. “No. We chose. We drew lots. I got guilt. I'm okay with guilt. I understand guilt.” He filled a plate and stalked over to the table, dropping it in front of his chair with a clatter. “I have been working on guilt, I got this, really, I am doing a good job.”

“I know,” Bruce said, patient as ever. He took a seat next to Nat, handing her the parmesan cheese without being asked.

“Okay,” Clint said, leaning back in his chair. “Right. Okay. Thor, can you get the garlic bread from the oven, there's a basket for it right-”

“You need to take panic now,” Bruce said, and Clint let out a pained sound.

“I don't want panic! Panic is a pain in my fucking ass, Banner, I could do without having to deal with panic, and that's your specialty anyway, you do so much better with panic.”

“I do,” Bruce agreed. Clint stared at him, suspicious now. Bruce smiled. Clint shook his head. Bruce nodded.

“No,” Clint said. “I am not taking panic at this late date, I'm completely set up for guilt!”

“Even with allspeak, this conversation makes little to no sense,” Thor said, frowning at them both as he set the basket of toasted garlic bread down in the center of the table. Bruce immediately took a piece.

“Does Clint ever make sense?” Natasha asked, popping a bite of pasta in her mouth.

“Occasionally, yes,” Thor said, dropping into his chair.

“Ha fucking ha to both of you,” Clint said. “You two can handle panic.”

Natasha's shoulders rose with a slight indrawn breath. “No,” she said. “We can't.” Clint opened his mouth, and she leaned forward. “Because Tony and I have a bad history when it comes to me digging into his background, and Bruce has never read his full SHIELD file.” She met Clint's eyes without flinching. “It's bad enough that we have. That we had to.” 

She leaned back in her seat. “You've got panic tonight.”

Clint squeezed his eyes shut, and gave into the inevitable. “After dinner,” he said.

“After dinner,” Bruce agreed. 

“Have seconds,” Thor recommended.

“I am. And the biggest piece of garlic bread.” Clint scowled at them, daring anyone to so much as object. “I fucking deserve it.”

No one argued.

*

Bruce could hear the sound of Steve working the gym's punching bag even before he opened the door. His eyes drifted closed, and he took a deep breath, his hand resting easily on the panel. His fingers were trembling, and he stilled them with a force of will.

When he pushed the door open, his breathing was steady, his heartbeat steady and slow. “Steve?”

Steve's fist thudded against the bag, the sound cacophonous in the empty space of the gym. He stopped, his back heaving with the force of his breathing, and he took a step back, glancing over his shoulder. “What can I do for you, Bruce?”

Bruce wandered over, picking his way through the various pieces of equipment. “I just thought-” He bounced the tablet in his hand against his thigh. “You might want to talk.”

Steve gave him a tight smile. “Thanks, that's nice of you, but no. I just-” He looked back at the punching bag, still swaying slowly back and forth on its restraints. “I think I'm better off just working out my frustrations.”

“I understand.” Bruce took a seat on the bench on the edge of the mats, resting the tablet on his lap. 

Steve glanced at him. “Going to watch me work out?” he asked, one corner of his mouth kicking up in a lopsided smile.

Bruce shrugged. “Finished with dinner. I don't have anything else to do tonight.” He blinked at Steve from behind the rims of his glasses. “Maybe you'll change your mind.”

“About what?” Steve asked. He turned back to the bag, his hands coming up into a practiced stance. He lashed out with one hand, and then the other, a flicker of rapid blows.

“About wanting to talk, rather than punch things,” Bruce said. He licked his lips. “Punching stuff only takes you so far, Steve. Whatever's bothering you is still going to be there when the workout's over.”

Steve nodded. “I know that. I know-” He rocked back and unleashed a savage left hook. The impact sent the bag swinging wildly, and he reached out to steady it with one hand. He stopped, his gaze locked on the place where his hand rested against the battered bag.

“I spent my entire life,” he said, his voice quiet, “hitting everything I encountered as hard as I could. I had to. Because every fight I got into, I lost, and I lost bad.” His shoulders came up, the muscles bunching under his shirt. “And that was fine. I mean-” He straightened up. “It wasn't fine. I didn't like losing. But what I hated was losing and knowing that the other guy didn't even feel it.

“So I hit with every bit of strength I had,” Steve said. He rocked back on the balls of his feet, circling around the bag. “I just, I wanted to leave one mark, one bruise, I wanted them to remember. I wanted to make the pain, the loss worth it. Every fight I ever got into, I couldn't hold back, or it would be...” He swung. “Useless.”

The bag snapped against its restraints, twisting wildly. Steve took a step back. “And if I do that now, I'll kill someone.”

His hands fell to his sides. “I don't want to hurt anyone,” he said, his voice quiet. “But especially...”

His voice trailed away, and Bruce waited to see if he'd continue. He didn't. He just moved forward, his hands coming up into position. “Especially not DJ,” Bruce said.

Steve flinched. “Yeah,” he said. “I can't-” He shook his head. “I can't hurt him. And I'm afraid I will.”

Bruce took a deep breath, and then another, concentrating on keeping his heart rate steady, on keeping himself under control. “No,” he said, the word quiet. 

Steve looked up, his damp hair flopping over his forehead. “No?” he said, his eyebrows arching up. “What do you mean, no?”

“I mean, no, that's not what's happening here,” Bruce said. He pulled his glasses off, and studied the lenses. “You're not afraid of hurting him.”

There was a beat of silence, and then the heavy thud of a wrapped fist hitting the punching bag. “Good to know,” Steve said, sarcasm twisting the words. “Thanks for letting me know, Doc.”

“You're not afraid of hurting him,” Bruce said. He tipped his glasses from side to side, letting the light play off the lenses. “You're afraid of scaring him.” He glanced up, his eyes peeking out from under the dip of his brows. “Aren't you?”

Steve was frozen, his knuckles still resting on the leather of the bag. He took a breath, his shoulders flexing with the force of it, and he leaned in, as if that small contact was the only thing keeping him upright.

Bruce looked back down at his glasses. “You know how to control yourself,” he said, his voice quiet. “You do it all the time. Otherwise-” He waved his glasses through the air. “Otherwise, you'd be wrecking things left and right. Wouldn't you?”

Steve didn't say a thing, his head falling forward, his forehead coming to rest on the punching bag.

“It took you, what, half an hour to adjust to the drawing tablet Tony set up for you?” Bruce asked. He rubbed his glasses on the hem of his shirt, and rotated them in his fingers, rubbing the same spot from a different angle. His hands were steady on the stem of his glasses, on the fabric of his shirt. “You've never broken a glass, or snapped a pencil, or-”

“It's not the same,” Steve snapped out. “Who cares if I break every pencil I own? Who cares about things, who-” He stopped, his arm drawing back. The punch was savage, sharp and hard and vicious, and he rocked back on his feet as the thud echoed through the empty gym. “It's not the same.”

Bruce braced his feet on the floor, pressing down against the balls of his feet. “No,” he said. “It's not. That's why you take precautions.” He slipped his glasses back on his nose and looked up. “That's why you always, always-” He stressed the word. “Always catch him by his clothes. When he's running, when he's trying to duck us, when he's out of control, you always snag him by the back of his shirt, or the back of his pants, or whatever he's wearing.

“You don't take the risk of grabbing his arm.” Bruce set his hands down on the bench on either side of his hips. “Because you know how to handle your strength. And yes, part of that is by making sure you don't end up in a situation where you can make a mistake. Things can be replaced. If you rip his shirt, that can be fixed. That can be replaced.”

He stopped, exhausted. “You're not afraid of hurting him. You're afraid of scaring him.” 

Steve didn't look at him, just kept his eyes focused on the punching bag, still swaying on its chain like a pendulum. “All due respect, Bruce, but how would you know what's in my head?”

Bruce smiled, just a little. “Because it's in mine, too. But I have the benefit of distance. I'm not his-” He stopped, knowing better than to use the word 'father,' but not sure what to replace it with. “I'm not one of his primary caregivers,” he said, instead. “I have time to adjust. To consider. You don't have that luxury.”

Finally, Steve's head swung in his direction. His face looked gaunt in the low light, his eyes shadowed. “I don't want to hurt him,” he said, his voice quiet. Bruce waited. “Or scare him.”

Bruce smiled, and reached for the tablet he'd brought along. “I know.” He triggered it with a flick of a finger. “I keep pictures, you know. Of DJ with the other guy. Or just with me. To remember, that, you know, he's...” He stopped, and started again with a stutter. “He's okay with me. All of me.”

He held up the tablet. “I think that's true for you, too.”

The picture had been taken without Steve's knowledge. It hadn't been hard, though, because Steve's attention was focused elsewhere.

He'd been in the middle of a video conference, viciously laying into two or three of the joint chiefs and possibly the VP, Bruce couldn't remember the details. But mistakes had been made, civilians had been put in very real danger, and Steve had been very, very angry. Half the team was clustered behind him, Clint, with his bow slung over his shoulder and Tony with his damaged armor still half on. Thor, his hair matted with black ash and something stickier mixed in, was just glaring over Steve's shoulder.

The picture was taken in profile, catching the aggressive angle of Steve's body as he leaned forward in his chair, his hands braced on the sleek tabletop, his brows drawn down and his mouth open mid-yell. But he was still seated, and tucked behind him, between his spine and the back of the chair, DJ was sound asleep. His cheek was pressed against Steve's back, his lips parted, and one hand was locked on the hem of Steve's uniform shirt.

Steve unwrapped his hands, staring at the picture the whole time. Finally, he reached out and took the tablet from Bruce, his mouth a thin line. “Who took this?”

“Natasha,” Bruce said. He smiled. “She's... Sneaky.”

Steve's face relaxed, just a little, and he sank down next to Bruce on the bench. One fingertip ghosted over the little, curled up form in the picture. “He shouldn't have been there.”

Bruce shrugged. “Probably not. But he was scared.” He smiled at Steve. “We'd been gone for a while. And it was a nasty one.” He leaned his elbows on his knees, staring across the gym. “I think he knew you needed him, as much as he needed you. And no matter how big and scary and loud you might get, Steve...” He smiled. “He's not afraid of you.”

Steve's mouth tipped up at the corners. “That mighta been the only thing that kept me from heading over to the Pentagon with some less than polite words to say.”

“We know.” Bruce smiled at him. “Tony shoves him at you every time you get into full rant mode.”

Steve blinked at him. “No, he doesn't.”

Bruce gave a cough that might've been a burst of laughter. He covered his mouth with one hand. “Uh, he absolutely does, Cap. Any time you're close to losing it about life in general, not about us, not about Tony, but about injustices and the general state of the world? When we're afraid you just might storm out of the building to lead a popular uprising? Someone throws DJ at you.”

Steve gaped at him. Bruce spread his hands. “It works, Steve, you calm right down, every time. A couple of kisses on the head, a little pacing back and forth as you mutter about bullies and power hungry politicians, and eventually, you're back to-” He paused. “Pretty close to normal.”

Steve clapped a hand to his face, and Bruce struggled not to smile. “DJ knows when he's being used as a Cap pacifier. He's fine with it. He gets hugs, and then...” He shrugged. “Okay, usually he gets candy afterwards.”

“This is horrible parenting,” Steve said, but he was fighting a smile. He looked down at the tablet in his hands. “Cap pacifier?”

“He's very cute,” Bruce said. “And Tony's going to kill me for telling you.”

“Because he'll have to stop?”

“Why would he stop?” Bruce reached out and patted Steve on the shoulder. “It'll still work. Even if you know it's coming.”

Steve opened his mouth, clearly about to protest, and then he closed it again. “It might.”

Bruce decided not to push his luck. “I'll let you get back to your workout.” He stood, and dusted his hands off on his hips, then paused, not quite sure which way to move. Shaking his head, he started towards the door, at a quick little lope.

“Bruce?”

Bruce paused, turning to look back over his shoulder. Steve bounced the tablet against his hand. “Are you okay?”

Bruce blinked, caught off guard. Then he smiled. “I think I am. Yes.”

Steve gave him a wry smile, but this one reached his eyes. “You'll tell us if you need-” He held up the tablet. “A pacifier of your own?”

Bruce ducked his head in a bobbing nod.”Yeah-” He looked back up with a smile. “I'll borrow him if it comes to that. Thanks. For offering. But DJ's pretty demanding when he wants to be held, so...”

Steve smiled at him. “Yeah. He is.” He straightened up. “Any chance there's still something to eat in the kitchen?”

“I think Clint left your plate in the oven,” Bruce said. “You have time?”

“I've got a few minutes before storytime,” Steve said. “Any chance you can join me?”

“Anytime, Steve.”

*

“Delivery.”

Tony didn't look up from his work. “You've got the wrong address,” he said, even as DJ leaned over to peek over his shoulder. “Don't make eye contact,” Tony told him. “He just wants money.”

DJ wriggled out of his lap, bouncing to the floor and out of sight. With a sigh, Tony turned, leaning his elbows on the workbench behind him as he watched DJ scramble over to Clint, who was carrying a tray with two plates and two glasses. “He told me he wasn't hungry,” Tony said to Clint.

Clint studied DJ, who was hopping around his legs, his good arm flailing in the air above his head. “Huh,” Clint said, his voice droll. “Seems pretty hungry to me.” To DJ, he added, “Go wash your hand, you're filthy.”

DJ considered his hand. “Fine,” he said, with a hopeful grin.

“Ha. Ha.” Clint leaned over. “Go wash up, brat, and your dad'll clear a spot for you to eat.”

“No, I won't,” Tony said. DJ gave him a look, his little mouth pursed up tight. “What?” Tony asked, trying to hold back a grin. “What, you said-”

“Washing now!” DJ said, hopping towards hallway that lead to his playroom and the bathroom. “Then. Eat!”

“You have your orders, soldier,” Clint said, leaning the tray on his hip. “Ready for dinner?”

“No,” Tony said, but he moved to a mostly empty space on the workbench and set about clearing a spot for the plates to go. “Sorry, thought Steve was going to tell you-”

“Oh, Steve told us,” Clint said. He tossed silverware and napkins down with a careless hand. “You know. On his way past.” Sharp eyes caught Tony's. “So, wanna talk about why Steve pretty much left a hole in the kitchen wall on his way through?”

Tony gave him a tight smile, shoving a chunk of armor plating out of his way. “I wouldn't know. Maybe you should ask him.”

“Really. You don't know.” Clint set a plate down, and set a glass of what looked like milk down next to it. “Cause I'm betting you do. Since most of Steve's bad moods involve injustice, inequality, or you, and I can't ask the world at large why it sucks so much, you seemed to be the natural place to start.”

The spike of temper caught him off guard. “Rogers is responsible for his own moods,” Tony snapped. Too loud. Too harsh. He knew it, and he jerked himself back, mentally as well as physically. He leaned back against the bench, crossing his arms across his chest. “So. Like I said. Maybe ask him.”

Clint studied him, those sharp eyes narrowed, his head tipped to the side just a fraction of an inch. He picked up the other glass from his tray, putting it down next to Tony. “He's being handled,” he said, setting a plate down next to it. “And we both know you're not going to tell him what's going on here, because, shit, that would make sense, and neither of us is good at sense, so...”

He held a fork out to Tony. “Wanna talk about whatever's chewing your ass?”

Tony stared at the fork. “Why are you here?” he asked at last.

“Because my father was an unbelievable asshole, too,” Clint said. Tony stared at him. Clint gave him a wide grin. “So, you going to talk? Or am I going to make some unsubstantiated guesses based on your SHIELD file?”

Tony took the fork from his fingers with a polished grin. “Go fuck yourself,” he said. He sat down, yanking the plate over and slamming the tines of the fork down into the pasta.

Clint wandered around the end of the bench, tray tucked against his side. “You know what was the worst thing about growing up in my family?” he asked. Tony ignored him, shoveling another bite of food into his mouth. Clint didn't seem to notice the lack of a response, or maybe he just didn't care. “After a while, the lying became ingrained. Like, I lied to a lot of people as a kid. I lied because I was ashamed, I lied because I was scared, I lied because I knew that no one would believe the fucking truth, and that just made lying a necessary evil.” He stopped, his head tipped back. “I lied because my parents told me to. My father told me to keep my damn mouth shut, and my mother told me to just...” His nose wrinkled. “Don't tell people our private business.”

Tony realized he'd stopped chewing. The food in his mouth tasted horrible, like ash, like dirt, but he swallowed anyway. 

“So the worst part, I think,” Clint mused, “worse than the messed up sense of self, worse then the way it fucked up my relationships with a lot of people, is the fact that I'm so used to lying about it that even right now, even telling you, there's this sense of panic, like, I don't know, my father's going to be right behind me with a belt, you know?” 

He looked at Tony, one eyebrow arched. “So all this stuff that's tied in with that, I'm so used to lying about it, sometimes I wonder if I even know I'm lying.” He reached across the bench, snagging a piece of pasta with his fingers, and tossing it into his mouth. “You tell a lie long enough, do you start to believe it?”

He reached for another piece of pasta, and Tony blocked his hand with the fork. “Keep your fingers out of my food, you are a savage,” he said. Clint grinned at him, unrepentant. Tony tossed the fork down. “Why are you doing this?”

Clint shrugged. “Just wondering,” he said. “If you know what's the truth, and what you had to say because there was always a line of press photographers, and society matrons, and PR hacks standing around you, staring at you.” He reached for the other fork, mixing up the pasta, sauce and vegetables on DJ's plate, releasing a cloud of fragrant steam from the depths of the dish. “You had a lot more to lose, if you forgot what lie you were supposed to be telling.”

He glanced up. “So, what's the truth?”

Tony could hear his heart thudding in his ears, loud and insistent, a rapidly accelerating tattoo. “The truth?” he asked, the words subdued. “The truth is, my father had affairs. He didn't see why he shouldn't, and he didn't do much to hide them. The papers were smart enough not to publish anything, but it wasn't a secret.” 

He picked up his fork, something, anything to occupy his hands. “And my mother had her pride. She was Catholic, so, divorce wasn't an option, but she had her pride, and when he-” Tony's teeth locked. “Humiliated her, she'd leave. For a week, a month, she'd pack her bags and take off for a trip overseas or a respite upstate, she'd get out, and she's make him pay for it.”

Tony smiled. “She made the bastard pay, and I'm glad she did, because maybe that was the only way she could strike out at him, to drain a bank account or two and leave him without a hostess.”

Clint studied him. “She take you with her?”

Tony shook his head. “Dad wouldn't have allowed her little fits to interfere with my life.” He took another bite of his dinner. “So no.” His chin dipped in a quick nod. “Anyway, I was away at school before I was ten, so it's not like I was coming home to either of them, anyways.”

Clint scratched the side of his neck, his head lolling to the side. “How'd that work out?”

“I considered it a relief at the time,” Tony said, and it sounded true. He wasn't sure if it was. He stared down at the plate, trying not to think about it, about the echoing emptiness when he came home, those rare moments of freedom from school, from something that felt like exile, only to find neither of them were there. 

That the old house was just as lonely as it had been when he'd left.

“Have you told Steve about this?” Clint asked.

Tony snorted. “Ever seen that man's disappointed face? Or his sad eyes?” He reached for his milk. “He loved my father. And dad's not around to defend himself. Seems lousy to ruin Steve's memories. Especially since it wouldn't change anything.” He took a sip, and it was a relief. It was creamy and familiar, soothing the acidic churn of his stomach. He took a breath, and drained the glass. 

When it was empty, he set it down, slowly, carefully, on the workbench. “Look, it's fine. I may be an ass, but Steve's not. Even if the worst happens, even if I end up like my father, and he needs to get the hell out, he won't abandon DJ.”

Clint nodded. “No. He won't.” He picked up Tony's plate, and Tony was surprised to see that it was empty. “And you're not your father.”

Tony gave him a thin-lipped smile. “Got more than a little of the old man in me, though.”

“Don't we all?” Clint snagged the empty glass. “But you know, just cause you're not making his mistakes doesn't mean you're not making mistakes of your own. And maybe sparing your dead father Steve's disappointed face isn't as important as, you know, sparing you Steve's disappointed face.”

“Are you trying to give me relationship advice?” Tony asked, and he sounded as incredulous as he felt. “You? Are trying to give ME relationship advice?”

Clint gave him a wide, cheerful grin. “Yep. And you know what's fucking terrifying, Stark?” He leaned in, his hand coming down heavily on Tony's shoulder. “You're going to take it.”

Tony stared at him, his mouth hanging open. Clint patted his shoulder. “Deej? Food's still warm, come eat,” he called. He released Tony. “I'm sure you've gotten enough water on the floor by now.”

There was the sound of tiny feet on the floor, and then DJ slid back into the workshop. His shirt was dripping, and so was his hair. “No,” he said, with a proud grin.

“Did you flood the bathroom?” Tony asked him, unable to hold back a smile.

“A little!” DJ said, scrambling up to the workbench. He peered over the edge, his eyes huge. “Dinner?”

“Right, I'm going to worry about that later, because I don't really care.” Tony scooped him up, and deposited him on the stool. “Tell Clint thank you for bringing it.”

DJ reached for his fork. “Thank!” he said.

Tony gave Clint a slight smile. “Thank,” he repeated.

Clint flicked a salute. “You're welcome, Starks.”

*

The playroom was dimly lit, a holographic night sky covering the ceiling.

Steve paused in the doorway, worry curling in his stomach. “Jarvis? Did Deej go to bed?” He stepped inside, peering towards the book corner. The bean bags there were empty, but there were the usual assortment of books scattered on the floor around the shelves. Steve caught himself smiling. Tidying up apparently had not gone well. “Or to charge?”

“No, he is in his tree,” Jarvis said. 

Steve looked across the room at the massive, shadowy shape of the tree. “Up in it, or in his nook?” he asked, hoping for the latter. The small hollow at the base of the tree was DJ's favorite hiding place, and he often retreated there when upset or angry, or when he just wanted a small, safe space.

“Up near the crown,” Jarvis said. “He is playing with the fireflies.”

They were artificial, the same as the tree was. But the small holographic bugs fascinated DJ, and he would sit and watch them for hours some nights. Steve wondered what he saw in them, if it was the light that caught his attention, or if he could see beneath that, to the holographic structure that allowed them to exist.

He wished he could see through DJ's eyes sometimes.

Steve crossed the room, pausing here and there to pick up a book, or a toy, to stack up the pages on the art table and check the lids on the paint pots. Giving DJ time to adjust to his presence, to see him and be comfortable with the fact that he wasn't alone any longer.

Finally, he reached the base of the tree and stopped, his head craned back. “Hey, Deej? It's almost bedtime. You ready for your story?”

There was no reply, no movement, and Steve lowered himself to the ground, suddenly feeling every one of his more than a hundred years. He felt ancient, and exhausted, and he didn't know how to fix this. Except to start with the most important thing.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “I didn't realize that you missed me-” He stopped. “Hugging you, and picking you up. Touching you. I'm sorry, because I didn't realize what was happening, your dad had to explain to me.”

Steve leaned back against the trunk of DJ's tree. “I shouldn't have done that,” he said, his voice quiet. “And I couldn't...” His voice trailed away, and he looked up at the dark, dappled canopy of the tree Tony had built, that Tony had nurtured, one of metal and plastic and alive for all that. Tony had built this tree to shelter his child, to let him climb, to let him reach for the stars, and if he fell, to fall where he was safe. DJ's tree. Tony's tree.

Steve's eyes burned, and he let them fall shut.

“Right after you hurt yourself, I picked you up, and when I did, I hurt you,” he said, his voice quiet. “Because I wasn't careful. Because I wasn't paying attention. I hurt you. And that's not acceptable. That's something that shouldn't ever be forgiven.” He let his eyes open, staring into the shadows of the leaves, watching the 'fireflies' dart around the bridges, through the ropes, along the bark and between the limbs. Steve smiled. “I love you, and I hurt you, and that scared me.”

He reached up, his fingers extended, and the fireflies darted between his fingertips, lighting the skin. “I thought I could still love you, but... From a distance.” Carefully, he closed his hand around the tiny hologram and dropped his hand to his lap. When he opened it, the light swirled around his palm, and then took off again, shooting up into the tree.

Steve rested his head against the trunk of the tree. “I thought I was protecting you,” he said, trying to smile. It hurt, but he was used to that. “But I went about it the wrong way, Deej. I'm sorry. I didn't realize...” He took a deep breath, and let it out as a sigh. “I love you too much to risk hurting you. Because you can't do that to people you love, that's...” He stopped. “That's something you never do.”

There was a rustle, somewhere above him, and he saw something move, something fall, and his hands came up automatically. Furbro fell neatly into his hands, and Steve swallowed, ignoring the way his pulse had spiked. “Hi,” he said to the toy, and his voice was steady. He was happy about that. “Did you fall? Or were you dropped?”

He heard the faint, almost inaudible sound of small feet on the walkway above him, and then, DJ's head peeked over the edge. “Hard to carry,” DJ said. He blinked, once, twice. “With one arm.”

Steve felt some of the tension go out of his shoulders. “Because you're supposed to hold onto the railing when it's dark,” he said. DJ nodded. “Thank you for being careful.” Steve paused. “Want to come down?” he asked, not wanting to push his luck. “Or want to stay there?”

DJ didn't answer, he just disappeared from view. A moment later, Steve heard him hopping along the walkway, feet slapping hard against the wood. “Don't jostle your shoulder,” he said, unable to stop the words from slipping out.

“Doesn't hurt,” DJ said, and he ducked under the railing, jumping down the last few feet to the floor. “Much.” He stood there, just out of reach, studying Steve. Steve waited, then held out Furbro, expecting DJ to take it. Instead, DJ ducked under his arm and settled down on the floor, right against Steve's side. “Why?” he asked, his head tipped to the side.

Steve let out a breath he hadn't even known he'd been holding. “Why what?” he asked, smoothing DJ's hair away from his face, cautious about it. Giving him the space he needed, to pull away if he wanted to. 

DJ leaned into his hand. “People get hurt,” he said, the words careful. His eyes flicked up towards Steve. “I get hurt.” He grinned, the expression cheerful. “A lot.”

“Yeah, I noticed, can we try not to do that so much?” Steve said, his lips twitching.

DJ looked highly skeptical. “Try,” he said, after a moment of consideration.

“Good, I'll take 'try,'” Steve said. He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to DJ's head. “And there's a difference between you forgetting what you're doing and hurting yourself accidentally, and me hurting you.”

“Why?” DJ asked. He flopped over, and Steve caught him, his heart in his throat, trying to cushion DJ's hurt shoulder. It had been instinct, fear for DJ overwhelming any fear he had about touching him, and he let out a breath he hadn't even known he'd been holding.

“Why is there a difference?” Steve sighed. “There just is.” DJ gave him a look, and Steve bit back a smile. “Okay, that's not going to cut it, huh?” 

“Use words,” DJ said, and Steve gave him a look. DJ was unrepentant. “Why different?”

“Because you trust me,” Steve said. He tried not to think about Clint's wry smile, about the way Bruce flinched, about Tony. About Tony at all. “And when you trust someone, when you love someone, and they hurt you, that's... That's a betrayal, Deej, and there's no way to excuse it. And at best, you stop trusting that person, even if you still love them. At worst.” He managed a small smile, and it hurt. “At worst, you start hating them.”

DJ stared at him, his mouth turning down at the corners. “Hate me?” he asked at last.

“No,” Steve said, before he even finished asking. “No. Of course not, never, Deej, what-”

DJ blinked, slow and careful. “I hurt you,” he said, his voice quiet. His head tipped to the side, his gaze considering. “Hate me?”

Steve leaned in. “No,” he said, flat and stern. “And what are you talking about, you never-”

DJ reached out and tangled his fingers in Steve's hair. “Yes,” he said, and Steve froze. “I did.”

It took Steve a moment to figure it out, to put the pieces together, and then his eyes shut. “In the workshop,” he said, the memory hitting him sideways, knocking the pins out from under him. “When you pulled me away from your- From Tony.” He straightened up, and DJ's fingers tightened on his hair for a second before letting go. Steve shook his head. “Deej, no, it's not the same.”

Another blink, dark eyes bright. “Why?”

“It's just not.” DJ gave him a look, and Steve struggled against a smile. “You were protecting your dad. You thought I was going to hurt him, you were afraid, and you had reason to-”

“No,” DJ said. He shook his head. “You said. No excuse. You said-”

“I know what I said, but this-” Steve stopped, and took a deep breath. He wondered if other parents had these problems. He almost hoped so. “It's different, Deej, it's not the same thing.”

“Not same,” DJ agreed. “I knew.”

Steve frowned. “Deej?”

DJ took a breath. “Knew. I would hurt you. Knew it.” His fingers twisted in the fabric of Steve's shirt, hanging on tight. “And.” He stared at Steve. “Did it anyway.”

He smiled, a small, wobbly smile. “You... Didn't mean it. You, were trying to help. Didn't mean to hurt. I did.” He looked down, and flexed his fingers, releasing the fabric bit by bit, pulling away. “I knew it would hurt. And I did it anyway.”

Steve took a deep breath, covering DJ's hand with his own, stilling it. “You meant to protect someone you love,” he said. “You were scared. You just wanted to protect someone. Someone-” He closed his eyes, and imagined he could hear wind through the leaves above them. “Someone who'd always protected you.” He looked down at DJ. “Right?” DJ nodded, and Steve let his fingers tighten on DJ's, giving them a squeeze. “I love you, Deej. I could never hate you. Not ever. Okay?”

“Okay.” DJ blinked. “But you said, no excuse.”

One of these days, he would win an argument with a Stark. Steve already knew that today wasn't going to be that day. “You pulled my hair,” he said. “And we know you shouldn't do that. Just like we don't hit, or bite, or kick.”

“Sometimes I kick,” DJ admitted.

“Sometimes you do,” Steve said, and flicked DJ on the nose, just to make him giggle. “Because you're very small and you get frustrated and it's hard for you to tell us what's wrong. So sometimes you do things you know you shouldn't do.” He smiled down at DJ, relief sweeping over him as he found his footing again. “And what do we do when we hurt someone?”

DJ took a very deep breath. “Apologize,” he said, the word drawn out and careful.

“That's right,” Steve said. He smoothed a hand over DJ's hair, and DJ leaned into the touch, his eyes closing tight.

“Sorry,” DJ said, and then again, “I'm sorry.”

Steve nodded. “Thank you,” he said. “I'm sorry, too. That I hurt you when I picked you up, and when I-” He managed a smile somehow. “And I'm sorry I hurt you, when I stopped picking you up.”

DJ scowled at him. “Do not do it again,” he said, with such indignation in his voice that Steve had to bite his lip to keep from laughing. Something must have shown on his expression, because DJ leaned in, his face scrunched up. “Do not.”

“I got it, I promise.” He couldn't resist pressing a kiss to DJ's nose. “I love you.”

“Love you, too,” DJ said, but it was an afterthought now, a reflex. “Hug, please.”

Steve opened his arms and let DJ crawl into his lap, let himself wrap his arms around DJ and hold on tight. He buried his face in DJ's hair, steadfastly ignoring the slight sense of panic as DJ's small weight settled against him. “I love you,” he whispered. “And I never want to hurt you. Because you trust me, and I never want to give you a reason not to.”

DJ snuggled close, his good hand locking onto Steve's shirt. “Book,” he said.

Steve grinned against DJ's head. “Is that how we ask for things?”

DJ heaved a very long suffering sigh. “Book, PLEASE,” he said. He reached out with his good hand, his fingers snagging Furbro's fur and dragging him in to sit with them.

“That was... Moderately better,” Steve said, struggling not to laugh. It was harder than it should've been. “Okay.” He stroked DJ's head, and then Furbro's. “Did you choose a book?”

DJ curled against his side, his head tucked against Steve's chest. “Don't care,” he said. His eyes close, and he smiled. “You choose.”

“Oh, I can choose tonight?” Steve asked.

One dark eye opened. “Trust you,” DJ said, and Steve's chest ached.

He had to swallow before he could manage to speak. “I'll find a good one,” he said at last. But he didn't move. He just stayed there, watching the fireflies dart through the air above them, his hand resting gently on DJ's head. “Deej?” DJ made a little sound. “It usually helps when I pick you up. When you're upset, or angry, or scared, it usually helps.”

“Yes.”

Steve looked down at him. DJ was staring up at him now, his big, dark eyes unreadable. “Why?” Steve asked.

DJ frowned. “I get... Confused,” he said, the words halting. “Can't understand, sometimes. What I see. What I hear. It's...” His teeth sank into his lower lip, digging in. “Confusing. Hard. Sometimes, things...” His fingers dug into Furbro's fur. “Don't know. If it's real. If I'm seeing wrong, hearing wrong.”

He let go of Furbro, his hand coming up to catch Steve's. As soon as his fingers latched onto one of Steve's, his face relaxed. He smiled up at Steve. “Ping.”

Steve smiled at him. “Ping?”

DJ gave a firm nod. “Ping,” he said. He dragged Steve's hand down, his fingers holding on tight. “This. Not confusing. Not hard.” He settled back down. “This. Is ping.” He stopped, his legs drawing up under him. “Can't explain.”

“It's okay,” Steve said. “Thank you for trying.”

DJ nodded. “Welcome.” He blinked at Steve. “Story, please.”

Steve leaned over, pressing a kiss to his soft, tangled hair. “Okay,” he said. But still, he paused, his fingers brushing over DJ's head. “Deej?” DJ looked up at him, his eyes wide, and Steve smiled at him. “How much do you remember? About... Before you were DJ? When you were just Dummy?”

DJ blinked, slow and careful. “Everything,” he said at last, and pushed himself upright, wobbling awkwardly to his feet. “Story.”

Steve swallowed a vague sense of unease, and rolled to his feet as well. “Story,” he agreed.

*

Tony didn't know how long he'd been staring at the same piece of wiring. “How's it going, Jarvis?” he asked.

“It is not your best work, but it is within specifications,” Jarvis said, and Tony resisted the urge to slam his head against the bench. 

“Why is it you only miss what I mean when it's convenient for you?” Tony asked, tossing the component aside.

“Perhaps because when I miss your meaning when it's convenient for you, you do not make note of it,” Jarvis pointed out.

“Really, we're going to do this?” Tony asked.

“It seems likely, as we do 'this' several times a week on average,” Jarvis said, and Tony didn't know if he should laugh or just scream.

Instead, he leaned back, his head tipped up towards the ceiling, glaring at the nearest camera. “Jarvis. How is it going with Steve and DJ?”

“Steve has completed his story, and DJ has fallen asleep,” Jarvis said promptly.

“There, was that so fucking hard?” Tony asked.

“Not at all, sir. Was asking the direct question so difficult for you, as opposed to hinting broadly in a manner that I am unlikely to interpret correctly?”

“Yes,” Tony said. “Yes, it was.” He pushed himself up. Stupid fucking Barton. He didn't need this. He didn't need any of this. He braced a hand on the workbench, letting his head hang down, letting exhaustion sweep over him.

“Sir? Would you like a video feed?”

Tony's eyes squeezed shut. “Yeah, I-” He stopped. “No. No, I don't, I don't want to sit here and watch them, I don't-” He shoved himself upright, straightening his back and forcing his chin up. “I want my-” He scraped a hand over his face. “Family.”

Jarvis was silent for a moment. “I suspect that they would both welcome your presence,” he said at last.

“Right,” Tony said. “What're you basing this on, Jay?”

“You are their family, too,” Jarvis said, his voice quiet, almost gentle. “It stands to reason they miss you, as much as you miss them.”

“I can't even begin to tell you about all the flaws that exist in that logic,” Tony said. “I mean, I could. I've got nothing better to do.”

“Or you could go and assist Steve in putting DJ to bed,” Jarvis suggested.

“Yeah, I'm not going to be doing that,” Tony said. He stood there, staring at nothing in particular. “Fuck it, I'm going to, aren't I?”

“One can only hope,” Jarvis said.

“Jay, you're out of the will,” Tony said, stomping towards the door. “I'm leaving everything to some sort of anti-technology crusade.”

“It does seem fitting with the way you've lived your life, sir.”

Tony told himself that he was not smiling as he headed up the hallway to the playroom. It made the trip a little easier, but by the time he pushed the door open, his heart was in his throat.

Steve was sitting with his back against DJ's tree, a picture book balanced on one knee, and DJ curled up against his side, fast asleep. Furbro was tucked against DJ's stomach, his good hand locked on tiny toy's synthetic fur. As Tony watched, Steve leaned over and dragged the blanket up over DJ's legs. DJ muttered something, trying to turn over, and Steve held him gently in place until he settled down again.

Tony didn't wait for an invitation, because he wasn't sure one was coming. He just headed across the floor, and plopped down next to Steve, stretching his legs out in front of him. “Looks like you two worked out your issues,” he said, his voice pitched low to keep from waking DJ.

Steve didn't look up from his book, but Tony could see him smiling, just a little, as he turned the page. “Thought you Stark Boys didn't belong on the ground,” he pointed out.

“And yet, here we are,” Tony said, waving an idle hand at DJ. “Both of us. I blame you. You've ruined us.”

Steve smoothed a careful hand over DJ's hair, his fingers slipping through the strands. “I don't know,” he said, his voice warm. “You both seem to be holding up just fine.” He glanced at Tony. “Starks. Made from pretty tough stuff, I guess.”

“We're actually shockingly delicate and fragile,” Tony told him. Above him, the tree moved, as if by some unseen wind, the leaves rustling and shifting. He closed his eyes and listened. “Very needy.”

“Now you're just making things up,” Steve said. His shoulder shifted against Tony's, his body warm and familiar. Tony leaned against him, resisting the urge to drop his head onto Steve's shoulder. Because there were still things that needed to be said.

“Sorry,” he said, because that was first, that was the most important one. Steve glanced in his direction. “I should've...” He took a deep breath, and let it out. “I shouldn't have said what I did. I didn't mean to, it just...” He stopped. “I know that you were trying to deal with a lot of shit, all at once.”

Steve's chin dipped in a slight nod. “Wasn't doing a very good job of it, though.” He gave Tony a wry smile. “Probably needed something to give me a solid kick in the pants.” He glanced down, and his face relaxed, his smile going soft and warm as he stroked DJ's hair. “You're usually good at that.”

DJ was losing a sock, and Tony reached out, tugging it off. DJ mumbled against Steve's stomach, his foot kicking against Tony's hand before he went still again. Tony smiled, balling the sock up in his hand. “Maybe. But even if that's true, I could've been...” He glanced at Steve, trying for a smile. “Less of an asshole about it.”

Steve nodded, his lips twitching. “That's definitely true,” he said. “But... You're an ass, Stark.” He reached out, smoothing his knuckles against Tony's cheekbone. “I'm used to it.”

“Fuck you,” Tony said, without any heat. He caught Steve's hand, and pressed a kiss to his knuckles, then to the calloused skin of his palm. “I'm sorry, anyway.”

“I know.” Steve hooked his thumb under Tony's chin, tipping his head up so he could meet Tony's eyes. “I said to Dummy, back when-” He paused, a flush sweeping up his cheeks. “Back when we were first working this out, Tony, I told Dummy, I want you to stop me. If you think I'm going to hurt someone, someone you love, someone I love...” He smiled. “I want you to stop me. No matter what it takes. I want you to stop me.”

Tony held his gaze for a second, for as long as he could, before he bent forward, burying his face in Steve's shoulder. “Love you,” he mumbled into Steve's shirt.

“What was that?” Steve asked, laughter audible in the words. He pulled back, swiveling his head to try to meet Tony's eyes. “I didn't quite hear that.”

Tony threw DJ's sock at his head, and Steve batted it away, laughing out loud now. Tony tried to glare at him, but it was impossible, it was impossible to even pretend to be angry, because Steve was smiling at him, his eyes alight with warmth. “I love you,” Tony said. Steve grinned, at him, and he added, “You dick.”

“Ah, I do adore the pet names you give me,” Steve said. “So charming.”

“Wait, we're doing pet names now?” Tony asked, grinning at him.

Steve was already shaking his head. “No. No, we're-”

“Cuddle bear? Sugar drop? Lucius lips?”

“Oh, God,” Steve said, his eyes squeezing shut.

“Love bug? Snuggle buns? Honey locks?” Tony ignored the look of suffering on Steve's face with a rising sense of glee. “Hot sass buns?”

“This is horrible,” Steve said towards the ceiling. “How do I make this stop?”

“I should suggest kissing him, that seems to work for you,” Jarvis told him, and Tony was laughing so hard that he was nearly crying. He barely put up a struggle as Steve caught his chin with gentle fingers, tugging him around to press a soft, affectionate kiss on his open lips.

“Did it work?” Tony murmured against Steve's mouth.

“It seems to have been at least partially successful,” Steve whispered back. “We okay?”

“Always,” Tony said, and waited, just a beat, two, just long enough for Steve's face to relax, and then he added, “Captain Spangle Shorts.”

Steve's mouth opened. Closed. “Never call me that again,” he said.

“Butter butt?” Tony asked, grinning.

“Do I have to kiss you again?”

“Please. I may be getting the wrong lesson here, Steve, just warning you, I am doing a thing and then getting rewarded with kisses, this is not going to dissuade me from doing the thing, I think you need to-”

Steve kissed him again, and Tony decided to shut up.

When they finally broke apart, Tony was relaxed to the point of bonelessness. “Help me understand something,” Steve said, and Tony made a noise, something like assent without bothering with syllables. Steve seemed to understand, anyway, because he kept talking. “I asked why he liked being held so much, and he said it was ping.”

Tony's eyes opened. “Ping?”

“I didn't understand, but...” Steve's voice trailed away. “I don't understand him, sometimes.”

Tony's lips turned up in a lopsided smile. “You always try, though.” He rubbed a hand over his face, his brain turning over various possibilities. “Jay? Network ping?”

“It seems very likely. Though the concept would not be identical, it is a way that he can make himself understood with a word that is both familiar and easy for him to speak,” Jarvis said.

Tony nodded. “Right.” He opened his eyes to find Steve looking down at him. “When he's a robot, he's on the network, right? And so is Jarvis, so are You and Butterfingers. He is a single entity, a single intelligence, but the network connects him, and because of the structure of his intelligence, he's able to constantly be querying the network, checking on them. Checking that they're still there. Exchanging tiny packets of information, asking questions, getting instantaneous responses.”

He drummed his fingers against the arc reactor, solid there beneath the slim protection of his t-shirt. “So he's never, well, alone. That's how I built them. To be all up in each other's business. So if one of them gets damaged, or trapped, or just low on a battery charge, the others will know. It's a-” Tony made a face. “It's a way that if I can't be there, they can be there for each other.”

“And when he chooses his human form, he loses that,” Steve said.

“Yeah.”

“He said, he gets confused,” Steve said, his voice quiet. “About what he sees, or hears.”

“Well, humans process things differently, and we don't really know how his brain works, when it comes to sensory processing,” Tony said. He scraped a hand over his face, exhaustion sweeping over him. “But when he's a bot, if he thinks he's getting a false reading, if he can't figure out what he's seeing, or hearing, he can ask the others. He can get immediate confirmation. Reassurance.” He paused, his head tipping to the side to study DJ's still face. “Even if he wanted us to do that for him, when he's human, we can't. But he can make-” He reached across Steve, flicking a finger against DJ's nose. “Contact. 'Are you here? Are you with me?'” He smiled as DJ grumbled in his sleep. “I think he just wants to be sure he's not... Alone.”

Steve nodded. “Right.” But his face was tight, his eyes shadowed.

Tony reached up, his fingertips brushing at Steve's hair. “Hey. He's okay. He's...” He smiled, and Steve smiled back. “He's fine.”

Steve nodded. “I know.” He looked down at DJ, his head tipped away from Tony. “Tony? You said your father didn't hit you.”

Tony went still, his fingers freezing in mid-air. He forced his hand back down by his side. “He didn't.” Steve looked at him, and Tony met his eyes without flinching. “And even-” He shook his head. “Even if he had, it wouldn't matter. He's gone, and he was your friend and he was my father, and-” Tony took a deep breath. “It doesn't matter, Steve.”

It didn't sound like a lie. He was pleased about that.

Steve nodded, but there was a sadness in his eyes, in the lines of his face, that Tony hated. He shifted, resting his head against Steve's shoulder. Steve shifted, letting him move closer. “What're we reading?” Tony asked, reaching for the book by Steve's leg.

“'The Paper Bag Princess,'” Steve said, getting there first. Tony gave him a look, and Steve smiled. “I think the message of having worth no matter what you choose to wear, no matter what other people think about what you wear, is something he likes.”

Tony gave a snort. “Yeah, I bet he does.” He let his eyes close. “Read it to me?”

“You missed storytime,” Steve said, ruffling Tony's hair with one big hand. Tony batted at his hand, trying to push it away, laughing when Steve evaded him.

“Yeah, well, it's a short book.” He opened his eyes and smiled at Steve. “Read it to me?”

Steve leaned in. “What'll you give me?” he asked, his voice quiet.

Tony arched an eyebrow. “Anything you want,” he said, and he meant it. Steve flushed, just a little, color washing over his cheeks.

“A kiss,” he said, and Tony arched up to press his lips against Steve's. It wasn't his best effort; the angle was awkward and neither of them wanted to wake DJ, but it was nice, for all that. And somewhere along the way, Tony had started to prefer nice kisses, soft, comforting, familiar kisses with Steve to even the hottest ones he could get anywhere else.

Of course, it helped that Steve's kisses were among the hottest Tony had ever experienced.

He pulled back. “You've been paid,” he said, just to make Steve laugh. “Now, read on.” He settled back down to listen.

Steve waited until he was still before he opened the book. “Elizabeth was a beautiful princess,” Steve read, his voice warm and soft. “She lived in a castle and had expensive princess clothes. She was going to marry a prince named Ronald.”

“Oh, God,” Tony said. “Elizabeth. No. Don't marry a guy named Ronald. There's no reason to do that to yourself.”

“Who's reading this story?” Steve asked him.

“Rename him,” Tony demanded. “I'm not listening to a story about a guy named Ronald.”

He felt the warm press of lips against his forehead, and grinned. “Luckily for you,” Steve whispered, “this story isn't about him at all.”

“Fine,” Tony said, waving a hand through the air. “You may proceed.”

“Thank you, your majesty.”

“You're welcome, Captain Sass Ass.”


End file.
